


You Might Well Arsk

by snugglesweaters



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barista John, Epistolary, John tries his best, M/M, Slow Burn, Soft Angst™, and some poetry, email fic, english major John, idiots to lovers, music major Paul, paul is oblivious, ringo suffers in silence, romcom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:10:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22130020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snugglesweaters/pseuds/snugglesweaters
Summary: Paul forgets his notebook at a Starbucks where John works as a barista. Things take off from there.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 236
Kudos: 281





	1. Chapter 1

**From:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** customerfirst@starbucks.com  
**Subject:** Forgotten Notebook at Myrtle St.

Dear sir or madam,

I am writing to enquire about a notebook that I left in one of your shops (on Myrtle Street, Liverpool) last Saturday (4 January). When I came back for it this morning (Monday, 6 January), it was nowhere to be found and none of the employees on shift knew anything about it. 

There was a different barista called “John” that day who took care of my order – so maybe *he* will remember the notebook? He was (the barista, that is) of medium-height, white, with a sort of dark auburn-ish fluffy hair, rather long fingers, and (dark) squinty eyes. There was an orange “Sword Swallower” pin on his Starbucks apron. He labeled my cup “POLLEN” and smirked in my direction the entire time I was drinking it sat at the corner table (not far away from the counter). I am sure he will remember me AND my notebook as I was writing in it at the time.

As this notebook is really quite important to me (it has my coursework in it, among other things...), I would be deeply grateful if you could enquire this “John” about its whereabouts. Of course, it’s possible that someone simply took off with my notebook without “John” noticing – in that case I apologise for bothering you. 

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,

Paul McCartney

.

**From:** customerfirst@starbucks.com  
**To:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Cc: **myrtlest.liverpool@starbucks.com  
**Subject:** Re: Forgotten Notebook

Dear Mr McCartney,

We are saddened to hear about your unpleasant experience at Starbucks! We have forwarded your enquiry to the management of our location at Myrtle Street, Liverpool who should take care of your complaint promptly. 

Please note that as per our Lost and Found Policy, Starbucks does not take responsibility for lost or stolen items on our premises. 

We have sent a free coffee coupon to your email address to compensate for your trouble with our staff at our Myrtle Street location. It will be valid for 7 days after it’s loaded to your account. Tell your barista you’d like to redeem your free drink, or apply it when you order ahead with your registered Starbucks Card in the Starbucks® app.

Enjoy your coffee!

.

**From:** myrtlest.liverpool@starbucks.com  
**To:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Re: FWD: Forgotten Notebook

Dear kind sir,

It has come to our attention that you were dissatisfied with our service at Liddypool's Myrtle Street Starbucks Coffee Shop. We would like you to know that we deeply regret this terrible shambles and kerfuffle. Will you please accept our apolocheeses kind sir if you please please me.

You should also feel free to use your coupon at our location. Although we don’t typically make it our habit to serve woodland creatures (and especially not ones of the hoofed variety) at our location, we shall make an exception for you.

As for the barista you have so aptly described in your original email, he is actually the manager at this location and is currently typing this email to you with his squinty eyes and long fingers (by the way, thank you for alerting us to the fact that we employ extra-terrestrial creatures at our shop! We will make sure to keep an eye on this intruder!). 

We would also like to assure you that as per the higher management’s request we have disciplined this individual appropriately (AND he will certainly be getting spanked at some point this week!).

You will be happy to hear that “John” indeed does have your notebook. You can pick it up any time on working days between 2 and 7:30 pm (just ask for Mr Starkey). “John” only works mornings and weekends, so you do not have to worry about encountering his fluffy head of hair during these times. That is, of course, unless you would like to come and get your notebook “in spite of all the danger”.

Cordially,

John W. Lennon

Manager, Starbucks Coffee Liverpool

P.S. Who in the bleeding hell drinks Caramel Banana Vanilla Bean Frappuccinos

.

**From:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** I like me drinks cheerful, excuse me for living

(I bet you only drink large black coffees because you’re such an utterly deep person.) 

Dear John,

Thank you kindly for returning my notebook as per your last email. I notice you have left your personal email address with it. It appears you’re not so fond of danger yourself if you’re not willing to continue our conversation on your work email. Figures.

Believe me, it would be my utmost pleasure to pry it off your freakishly long fingered-grip personally, but I typically have classes in the mornings and I work weekends, so my presence at your café last Saturday was, in fact, an anomaly. Seems I am destined to never see your alien perm head again… or at least not this semester, that is. 

Your tiny coworker Ringo laughed his arse off when I indeed did “ask for Mr Starkey” at the café, by the way, thanks for that. I like Ringo, he’s nice, as opposed to someone else I (barely) know. He told me you were studying English – suddenly your eloquence and (dare I say it) wit in your original email makes a whole lot of sense. I always knew English students were secretly a bunch of muppets. 

I do quite fancy the poem you scribbled in the back of me notebook. I have to say I am myself partial to keeping dogs as pets, but your budgie does sound like a corker. 

Now, let me be serious for a second (but only a second): I suppose I can safely assume that you have gone through my notebook – judging by that reference to my song in your email – so I’m sure you can appreciate why I was so eager to unite with it. It’s personal stuff. I don’t ever show my notebook to other people, not even my closest friends. Anyway, they don’t know I write songs or anything… I suppose it’s too much to ask that you don’t share it with other people?

Finally – I hope you really did get punished for your ghastly behaviour at the café. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of spanking from time to time. It certainly sounds healthier than swallowing swords. 

Peace, love, and Rock’n’Roll,

Paul

P.S. You can save your apolocheeses, dairy makes me gassy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you for being so enthusiastic about this fic in the first chapter's comments, everyone! I hope this next bit will be just as satisfying but perhaps in a different way. I already shifted gears a little bit from the snarky quips (it does say in the tags that this is not really a hate to love fic – the real John and Paul never hated each other either... well, except during that late 60s and early 70s bit BUT WE DON'T MENTION IT IN THIS HOUSE), but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. Let me know! x

**From:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** I just didn’t know deer liked bananas, is all

Dear Paul Rock’n’Roll, 

(Or should it be James? Jim? Jimbo? Did you change your name to make it rhyme with rock’n’roll?? Answer me truthfully. I need to know what degree of nerddom I’m dealing with here.)

You’re dead wrong, y’know, because I don’t even like coffee. We do make a cracking cup of tea, though, we put the bags in ourselves and all. It’s a riot. You should try it sometime instead of that certified caffeinated milkshake. 

But you’re absolutely right (in this one particular thing), I *am* an utterly deep person. I study English, after all. 

Speaking of, I see you have uncovered our conspiracy. It is indeed true that all the English students in the city (nay, in the country) are secretly muppets. Every full moon, just after the clock strikes midnight, we congregate at Abercromby Square. The agenda differs, but typically we ride around the city on bikes with streamers and sing wholesome songs. Sometimes we wear golden top hats, sometimes we worship the devil… your usual stuff. I play the ukulele and harmonica. Sometimes I play the fool. (The last two are actually true of my non-muppet self as well.)

Ringo tells me you turned up again the other day for your usual cup of banana delight. I asked him to put “Bananaland Lad” on your cup next time, but he insists – and I quote – that my “flirtin’ methods are getting a bit too aggressive in me old age and that I’ll scare you off”. I’ve no idea what he’s referring to and I am miffed by his remark about my age, especially given that the wanker is older than me.

Not to pour fuel on the fire (or should that be caramel banana frappuccino into the bin?), but I don’t regret reading it, really. I could’ve sworn you were a fellow English student given all the poetry there (then again, I would’ve seen you at our muppet gatherings if that were true). They’re really grand. I realised (and when I did, it was like “duh!”) that they were all songs after I read your last email. You studying music, then? That must be really interesting. I’m not even being sarcastic (I gather I have used up my quota for the week), you see, because I happen to love music myself.

I liked “I’ll Get You”. I can’t exactly recall the lyrics anymore (and I wasn’t that much of a nosey arsehole to take a picture), but there’s something about the concept of beginning a song with the word “imagine” that I really dig. It’s like you’re inviting your audience to share this higher plane of thought with you – a fantasy world where there’s a love story unfolding. Very elegant. I wonder if you have any music for this piece? I’d be interested to hear it. 

There was another one that I thought was really gear – something about a place? It was a similar principle, but sadder, about having to dissociate from all the crap that’s happening in life. To go inside your head where it’s quiet and the time stands still. Felt familiar.

Your stuff actually reminds me of the Scottish poet Edwin Muir. This bit just screams you:

I've been in love for long  
With what I cannot tell  
And will contrive a song  
For the intangible  
That has no mould or shape,  
From which there's no escape.

See what I mean? Incredible. You should look him up.

Now for the important question: What do you keep jabberin on about me fingers for? I’ll have you know I never had any complaints from anyone – you might well arsk all my loverns, wink wink. Also – I don’t really have a budgie. The budgie in the poem is supposed to be me. (It’s a poetic device. Or something.) 

Have you got a dog, then? I write about dogs as well sometimes. I’m not sure you’d like my approach.

Anyroad, I have to sign off now, my auntie is calling me down for supper. And when I say calling, I mean she just sent me a text that says “Dear John, Come down for supper. Sincerely, Your aunt Mimi”. Aren’t senior citizens adorable? (I’ve been teaching her about text speak and emoticons but she won’t hear of it. “Honestly, John, you fancy yourself a writer and yet you insist on using these rude pictures! I never.”) I fuckin love that woman.

Anonymously,

John

P.S. I left you something with Ringo. Don’t forget to pick it up!

P.P.S. As for swallowing swords… well, let’s just say that if you know how to do it properly, you need not be afraid for yer health. Just like with spanking, all you need is a good safe-word.

.

**From:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** “All You Need Is A Good Safe-Word” should be a song

Dear John,

Blimey! You certainly ARE an English student. I don’t believe I ever got a longer email from anyone in my life (and that includes the time one of my inny teachers caught me at the privy smoking and writing some “yer ma” joke on the wall in sharpie. he wrote a long email to me da describing the entire incident in detail while also slagging off his parenting. it did not end well for anyone involved). 

Not that I mind long emails, mind you – I do enjoy reading. I’m currently sat at work doing honest to God nothing. It’s dead here. I don’t understand why Brian (that’s my boss) insists on opening up the store so early in the morning when most kids in the city are either in class or sleeping off their hangovers. It’s so fuckin quiet here. Dull dull dull.

If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I HATE dull. Me mate George says that I can’t sit still for more than five minutes and even then I can’t stop tapping my foot or messing with me hair. I asked me da to get me tested for ADHD when I was younger, but he said “you’ll grow out of it, son” and that was the end of the discussion. Not sure I can still get tested in my 20s?

I do have trouble writing longer pieces of texts (like emails) due to this predicament. (So let’s see how long I can make this message.) Interestingly, it doesn’t apply to composing. I can sit at a piano or scribble in my notebook for HOURS. It’s indeed the best place to be.

I propose we make a pact – I will stop referring to your fingers as “freakishly long” if you stop making fun of my Starbucks order. Let a lad enjoy a banana. (I see what I just wrote but I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction of deleting it.) Also, please, do NOT call me Jim, that’s me da’s name and just… no. I’m sure you can appreciate why – you English student types read a lot of Freud, yes? 

I mean, I mostly remember you squinting at me like I did something naughty. Why did you do that, anyway? It made me feel like I was naked in the café. I actually checked if I was still wearing me trousers.

Speaking of – I will certainly stop by later tonight for a cup of that banana delight and pick up whatever you left there for me. Let’s not overdo it with the delight, though, I want to be able to fit into my lucky trousers by the end of the week as I have a hot date.

I will leave you something with Ringo as well. Let’s call it a step in the direction of tentative friendship. Truth be told, I’m not sure I want to be mates with a spooky muppet. Then again, I always wanted to ride a bike with streamers, devil worship or not. Maybe I’ll even take an English class next semester. God knows my actual classes are horrid, so it would be a nice change. (And yes, I study music, and yes, it’s a drag. It’s definitely not turning out the way I’d hoped.)

It’s interesting that you live with your auntie. Not a local lad, then? I could have sworn I heard some Scouse in your accent back at the café. Is your family originally from here, maybe? Sorry if I’m being nosy. I feel like I would have seen you around the city before, being a local myself and all. 

I checked out Edwin Muir’s poetry and it’s really beautiful. I especially enjoyed “The Child Dying”. There’s so much comfort in knowing you can express your feelings (be it grief, love, or what have you) in art when you’re incapable of doing it in real life, wouldn’t you agree? I guess that’s also my response to everything you said about “I’ll Get You” and “There’s A Place”. Except, yes, there’s music. But it’s not ready yet. It needs to be perfect before I share it.

I have to say it’s really interesting to have someone analyse my stuff. I usually don’t like sharing it with anyone (not even George) before it’s finished, but you make me want to show you more. Funny how that happens. And I do have a dog – her name’s Martha. She’s an actual dog, not me as a dog, though. That said, I quite fancy the idea of writing a song about her/for her. Your budgie poem really made my fingers itch to write something of my own!

I love that you play harmonica! And the ukulele. Somehow the image of you playing a tiny guitar seems right, y’know what I mean?

Someone finally came in, so I suppose this is where I say goodbye.

Goodbye, John.

Paul

.

**From:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Actually, “Let A Lad Enjoy A Banana” should be a song

(Seriously, it would be all the rage at the next Liddypool pride!)

Paul,

First of all (cor, your name really rhymes with everything, doesn’t it), wow, I was expecting everything when I came to work yesterday but seeing your notebook again was not amongst those things. I would be less surprised if an actual deer came into my shop, ordered an Upside down Macchiato, and paid with Monopoly money. I would be less surprised if Ringo jumped up on the counter, ripped off his apron along with his shirt and started drumming on his naked stomach while singing “God Save The Queen” (hold on, that actually did happen, only it wasn’t Ringo but it was me).

You’re lending me your notebook again to do… what exactly? Or is this passing of your notebook back and forth going to be a thing now? Well, I never! (I think I’d quite like it to be a thing now.) 

You should definitely take an English class next semester. You already have the muppety look down (have you heard of The Snowths?), the rest will be a smooth transition. 

You don’t like being a music student, then? I had a feeling that you were one of those people who were music personified! I remember watching you at the shop as you scribbled in your notebook, you know. You hummed and your foot was tapping (although now I know that may have been your ADHD). I leaned forward as far as possible, trying to hear what you were humming, and almost fell over the counter face-first onto the floor. Embarrassing. You didn’t notice. Cynthia, one of my other baristas, still laughs at me, though. I don’t know why I even keep these friends – sometimes I feel like my sole purpose in this world is to entertain Cyn and Ringo. 

Seriously, though, you should drop out if you’re not enjoying uni. I know I would have. Luckily I really like my studies. I was positively shocked when I realised it. I might even do a PhD. A Lennon – in academia – the mere thought would definitely make my auntie Mimi cry. And bless her, that woman never cries – I suspect she’s had her tear ducts sealed at some dodgy clinic in Blackpool.

Speaking of bodily dysfunctions – I’m basically legally blind, hence all that squinting. If you encounter me in the wild (meaning anywhere else but my shop), I tend to wear glasses. I don’t wear them at the Starbucks because that way I don’t have to deal with the mundanity of the work so much. Everything’s fuzzy and funny. I like that. Bit like when you’re on drugs. It’s comforting when the world becomes *too much*. Hard to explain. 

That said, sometimes I *want* to see a bit better. Especially when someone who really catches my eye appears in my shop. That’s when all the squinting and staring and leaning forward happens. That’s all I have to say in my defence. (You were definitely not naked, by the way. I would’ve certainly put on me glasses to see *that*. We don’t get a lot of al fresco customers these days.)

I am, indeed, from Liverpool! And you’re right, it’s kind of mad that we haven’t seen each other around before, especially considering we both like music. And well, I do have a bit of an accent, but it’s not terribly pronounced. My auntie Mimi beat it out of me when I was a child (not really *beat*, of course, but y’know what I mean). It’s funny, though, we might’ve been riding the same buses or going to the same shops for all we know! I think I would’ve noticed you, though. 

And I think I do, in theory, understand what you mean about the feelings thing – though I seem to have the opposite issue. I find myself bursting with all sorts of emotions and more often than not they come out as anger (or, in better case as sarcasm or mischief). I am currently working on cracking this issue with my therapist. Once I understand my feelings, I find it easier to process them in my art, but I can’t do it the other way round. Guess people really are different.

By the way, I have a feeling your email was nearly as long as mine (if not longer)! Did you take breaks and ran laps around your workplace so you wouldn’t go crazy writing such a novel to someone you barely know?

I’m flattered.

Cheerio,

Your pal John 

P.S. Speaking of Dr. Freud, that tiny guitar image thing... are you saying I have a tiny penis?

P.P.S. Have fun at your date! If those trousers are indeed lucky, they won’t stay on for long, banana delight or not!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this chapter, consider liking or reblogging it on tumblr [over here](https://slippingintostockings.tumblr.com/post/190108360659/you-might-well-arsk-ch-2fandom-the-beatles-jp). Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ringo continues to suffer in silence and Paul's fashion choices are revealed.

**From:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** I never even mentioned your todger

(but even if I did, it would be too small for you to read without yer glasses on, ohoho)

Dear John,

Thank you so much for the “Elvis” pin! I know you were probably just making fun of the whole “rock’n’roll Paul” thing, but I LOVE Elvis. I will never take it off. Not even in the shower. Seriously, I will pin it to my bare flesh and bleed for the King. 

I’m only joking. Or am I.

Ringo gave me a funny look when he saw how happy I was. Is that his usual MO or is there something else going on? You didn’t put a surveillance device into the pin, did you.

I tried not to think about it too hard when I left my notebook at your shop. Though I will disclose that I did almost come back for it several times that day and then again today – one of those times I actually walked smack out of my Foundations in Tonal Harmony class without taking any of my stuff – including my jacket – and only realised what I was doing as I turned onto Myrtle Street, freezing. 

I mean, I dislike that bleeding class with the power of a thousand suns (who fookin cares about notational spelling, if it sounds good it fookin sounds good), but I do love that bomber jacket. (It has strawberries on it and it is, therefore, delicious.)

Like I said before, it’s really difficult for me to share my lyrics before they’re done, but there was something about your analysis and commentary that really intrigued me. I was hoping you could take a look at some of the other pieces in there? Or not, y’know. Whatever suits you. 

Speaking of my coursework – yes, unfortunately I do not enjoy my studies. I started uni quite late anyway, because I wasn’t sure if it was something I wanted to do, but I thought studying music would be fulfilling. Turns out it’s actually offputting. I didn’t want to look under the hood! I don’t want to know how it works! It *works* and that’s all I need to know to make my music. I’m not saying it can’t be useful to other people, but it’s just not my thing. Still, I am nearly finished with my module, so I feel like I have to stick it out.

I wonder – don’t you ever feel the same way about literature? Wouldn’t you rather spend your time writing than analysing what other people have written? Doesn’t analysing poetry take the magic away?

You think I didn’t see you staring at me as I “scribbled” in my notebook as you say, but I did see you, y’know. My eyesight is perfect and I’m also an excellent multi-tasker (I’m always composing in my head in addition to whatever else I’m doing at any given moment anyway, so what’s a few extra open tabs) so I was aware of it the entire time. 

And yes, I even noticed the near crash landing. What an embarrassing display, John Lennon. You really should have some dignity in your old age.

Your auntie sounds hilarious! I wonder what she’d think of me. My Scouse isn’t very strong, either (it was, too, “beaten” out of me as a child, me mum wanted me to speak “proper”), so perhaps Mimi would approve of our tender friendship? I can certainly put it on if I want to, though – I love imitating people, especially my Liverpoodlian aunties who claim to not have a strong accent – spoiler alert: they do!).

What type of glasses do you wear, then? Are they more Buddy Holly, Zooey Deschannel or Steve Jobs? Or are we talking extreme eyewear à la Elton John? I need to know to complete my mental image of you. (I’m secretly hoping it’s the last option, but then I feel like I would have *definitely* noticed you around Liverpool before.) 

Where exactly did you grow up? I know it can’t have been Allerton.

And yeah – I don’t know why but I actually felt really at ease when I was writing you that email. Me foot nearly stopped tapping. It’s incredible that a person with so much chaotic energy can have an ultimately calming influence on me. And we aren’t even talking in person!

Take care,

Paul

P.S. I did have fun on me date, thanks very much. Somehow I don’t feel like the bird appreciated me jabberin on about music, though. Still, the trousers *did* come off, so it wasn’t an altogether wasted evening. 

.

**From:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** It’s not always about size, y’know

(also, I am actually near-sighted – very very near-sighted, but that’s beside the point – so your joke doesn’t even make any sense unless I was looking at my penis from far away, which isn’t anatomically possible if you’re not a cartoon character.)

Dearest Macca,

Ringo’s entire face is funny, don’t worry about it. He's a drummer – they're all crazy, haven't you heard?

Apologies for the delay in my response. It turns out that the beginning of the new term equals one busy coffee shop. (Who’d have thunk it?) I have been knees-deep in zombified students for the entire past week. It’s not a pretty sight. Maybe you and your face should stop by sometime again during my shift so it balances out. Even if you don’t come and see me, I will leave you something with Ringo for Monday afternoon as an apology – along with your notebook, of course.

I see you have opted to use my full name, son – I want you to know that whenever you do that, I automatically read the words in my auntie Mimi’s voice. Just something to keep in mind for the future.

I’m glad you liked the pin! It was a joke only partially as I happen to love the King myself. I have a similar pin that I wear on me jean jacket, actually.

I have been endlessly emailing the big Starbucks bosses in the US of A to allow me to add a drink called “Burning Love” to our secret menu. So far all I’ve been getting back are snippy responses such as “we sincerely hope you appreciate that our corporation is not a sleazy bar, Mr. Lennon” and “you’ll do better to take coffee-brewing more seriously, Mr. Lennon”. I don’t know why they get their Yankee knickers in a twist. Adding drinks to any menus – let alone the secret(!) menu – should not be this hard! Am I wrong?

You’re from Allerton! Ah! That, at last, makes sense, then. I grew up (and am still living) in Woolton, so you wouldn’t have seen me around your place when we were kids. In fact, Mimi wouldn’t let me go there (the old bird might be a tiny bit classist, I admit). Still, they’re not that far away from each other! I used to hang out around the golf course when I was a teenager, slagging off school, smoking, drinking, and the like…

I think Mimi would quickly warm up to you, to tell you the truth, regardless of your peasant pedigree. You seem like the kind of person who can charm himself into anyone’s good graces (I am sadly not that kind of person. I am the opposite of that kind of person). Mimi is a sucker for a pair of big hazel eyes, too. But then who isn’t.

I don’t know whether I feel the same way about literature you feel about music. I think not, actually. With literature, looking under the hood is what makes it pleasurable for me. You can’t enjoy an Emily Dickinson poem properly until you have “solved” it like a riddle (and when I say “solved”, there is never just one solution, obviously). 

I do know that i feel about *music* the same way you feel about music, though. I never felt the desire to learn scales or annotations or composing. I like that it is all a mystery to me.

I suppose my glasses are most Buddy Holly if I have to choose one (though they’re not slanted like his), and oh my oh my, do I ADORE Buddy Holly. He was a class fookin act and he’s definitely a role model to me. Can’t believe you’d make that reference! Can you believe some people don’t even know who he is anymore? I’m starting to think that you're not even real, Paul McCartney!

Right. I had better get off the toilet now.

Tally ho,

John

P.S. My grand old age of 24, you mean? Such slander! The cheek! I am basically a baby, still! You should know being only 2 years my junior!

P.P.S. If you’re so set on completing your mental image of me (and pray tell, for what purposes?), you could always just – and I realise this is a wild thought – come and SEE ME? With your actual fairytale-like peepers? Just a suggestion.

.

**From:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** How do you know how old I am? Have you been stalking me?

John,

What’s the W stand for? Wolfgang? Walter? Wallace? Somehow I can’t see you as a Wolfgang, although you do have the whole maniacal laughter genius aura going on from what I remember. You could be the Mozart of the 2020s.

You know you don’t need to apologise for “late” responses, right? We’re not email married. There’s no email police. You can reply whenever you want! In fact, I might be a bit slow in my responses come next week, too, since – as you pointed out – it’s the beginning of the term and I’m already (excuse my French) crapping meself from all the assignments.

Speaking of, I think I’m content with us being email pals for now. Who knows what might happen if we took this young blossoming friendship out into the real world. There is such a thing as getting too close to the sun, you know?

There’s a secret Starbucks menu? How did I not know about this? Once you manage to get through to the Americans, would you mind creating a secret drink for me? I feel like I’d be the coolest lad in Liverpool if I had my own secret drink at Starbucks! (And I don’t care how uncool that makes me sound.) Something delightful with bananas and berries and plenty of coconut milk. Ah, and coffee, of course.

I am indeed from Allerton! And blimey, John, I used to hang out around the golf course as well back in me time! We must have just about missed each other. 

Curiouser and curiouser. 

Have you always lived with your auntie, then? Sorry if this is a personal question – you can tell me to fuck off. It does seem like you and Mimi have a fun relationship, though. You obviously love her very much.

Buddy Holly is indeed amazing. I can see what you mean what you say he’s your role model. You have the fluffy hair, too, and everything! Can’t believe I haven’t made that connection before (see, you should wear your glasses all the time). It makes me happy that you’re into 50s music like me! I honestly don’t think there’s been a better era for music since then. It’s like people in the second half of the 60s never managed to figure out how to have fun and innovate. Thank God for Motown or otherwise that decade would have been pure crap.

Eee, here I go jabberin on about music again. This is why I can only entice my dates with me body, I suppose. Thought birds do like it when I sing to them. At least once in my life I want to go out with someone who will be interested in what’s coming out of my mouth besides my tongue.

I just looked down on my jacket and saw the pin and now I can’t stop smiling. 

And, I suppose this is as good a point as any to end this email.

Your email pal,

Paul

P.S. If there’s one thing I have learned from our correspondence so far, it’s that you’re nothing IF NOT a cartoon character, so your argument is invalid.

P.P.S. Did you honestly write your last email in the loo? And why am I even surprised?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see Paul's strawberry jacket, [google it](https://www.google.com/search?biw=1440&bih=697&tbm=isch&sxsrf=ACYBGNRYMdK6YPpPcB0b-MpASO95CG40bQ%3A1578486647866&sa=1&ei=d8sVXvexNLTKgwfKgL7wCw&q=paul+mccartney+strawberry+jacket&oq=paul+mccartney+strawberry+jacket&gs_l=img.3..35i39.0.0..134650...0.0..0.111.217.0j2......0......gws-wiz-img.cVExD4s14kI&ved=0ahUKEwi3ybb_gPTmAhU05eAKHUqAD74Q4dUDCAc&uact=5)! And I think we all know which ELVIS pin I'm referring to.  
Consider liking or reblogging this chapter's [tumblr post](https://slippingintostockings.tumblr.com/post/190138856119/you-might-well-arsk-ch-3fandom-the-beatles-jp) if you liked. More soon ;).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John reaches out, Paul is very tired, and George is incredulous.

**From:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Close to the sun? You’re not fookin Icarus, though, are you?

Paul,

It finally happened. I have spotted yourself in the wild! A genuine Macca sighting! Incredible.

Sir David Attenborough voice:

“And here were have the McCartney – a formidable beast in its own right. Endowed with incredibly soft features yet looking so utterly masculine at the same time, McCartneys often tend to bamboozle both friends and enemies.

Is this fine creature a predator? Or is he more of a prey? We may never know.

McCartneys can often be seen in the company of a wild beast known as the Martha. Marthas are hybrids – the first filial generation of offspring of dogs and sheep. They are generally friendly, though sometimes they can become overly protective of their McCartneys. In that case it is advisable to keep a safe distance or else you might get bit.”

(Oh and you were right, that strawberry jacket *is* delicious.)

Admit it, you added the “coffee” almost as an after-thought! The cheek of saying that to your very own barista! I have to say, somehow I’m not surprised that your drink would be something so /fruity/. I’m going to take you up on this and create it for you, Mr McFruity. It can be on the secret-secret menu. I’m going to call it Macca’s Monkberry Moon Delight Frappuccino. Though I honestly don’t understand why you insist on drinking frappuccinos in winter, you madman.

And course there’s a secret menu! Technically, “secret menu” just means that any old customer can order anything they want (or customize any existing drink), so it’s not an actual menu, but I quite fancy the idea of having a real secret menu. That’s where the secret-secret menu comes in, y’see, cool names and all.

I need to find little ways to entertain meself in this job. It’s wack enough I have to get up with the fuckin lark to get the place open and primped for the zombies of Liverpool who wait outside the door every morning looking like something that crawled out of The Shining. I *hate* mornings. I *hate* waking up. And I *hate* not being asleep. So, naturally, I chose a “career” in an industry where everything hinges on early bloody morning crowds.

I should have become a stripper – alas, I don’t have the abs to keep meself up on the pole.

By the way, bananas are also berries, did you know that? It completely changed my perspective on life when I found out, it did. I shouldn’t be alone in this suffering.

It’s all right to ask about my life, Macca. I tend to be an open book, so you’d probably hear it from me at some point anyway. Mimi is sort of my parent, really. Me mum left me when I was a child as did me dad and she was there and took me in. We’ve been honourin each other with our respectable brands of sarcasm ever since. That’s the story, in short.

And yer right, I’d do anything for that bloody woman, but sometimes I do wanna throttle her.

Lovingly.

I wholeheartedly agree with what you said about 60s music. It’s funny, because when I was a teenager, I actually dreamed of becoming a rock’n’roll star (which little lad in his right mind doesn’t, though, right?). I even started a band in the olden days. We called ourselves Johnny and the Moondogs and we were terrible. We were short on moons, dogs, good taste, and guitar skills. Still, we had marvelous fun.

When I met Ringo years later, I regretted that I had disbanded the group. The lad’s a beast on drums – he’s a professional drummer, dontchaknow!

Course I wrote my last email on the lav – it’s the best place to get this kind of stuff done. It means no prying eyes (Ringo) and no knowing smirks (Cyn). No need to be precious about it. It’s also a great place for singing – top notch acoustics! I heartily recommend it. (The customers get spooked sometimes, though.)

It is not so useful for writing poems, though I have been churning those out lately. It’s dead easy to be a poet when you’ve got proper inspiration and my inspiration has just skyrocketed. I even entered a couple of my pieces into this big poetry competition. I have no idea whether they’ll like them poems or not. They’re a bit different from my usual snarky rhymes. Take this: The mighty Lennon decided to be serious for once, sat down and let it all pour out. The usual urge to cover all those feelings up with funny symbolism and general absurdity came like a clockowork, but I pushed it down. Shocking, eh?

Now I’m really nervous about it, however. What if they hate these poems? What if I got way too schmaltzy in me old age? I guess we shall see.

Toodles,

John

P.S. The W’s for Winston. I was given it in me parents’ feeble attempt at patriotism, apparently. I reckon I might drop it altogether or swap it for my spouse’s surname if I ever get married. Though I suppose as far as prime ministers go, it could have been worse.

.

**From:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Attachment: **[what_even.jpg](https://66.media.tumblr.com/6dc038ec7ea1bcd3f899ca3430c57e72/dd98441e6267b94b-d2/s540x810/cbb60b6d90189119c4a46dbf278a47d04131b2b9.jpg)  
**Subject:** You’re ridiculous

And I kind of love it.

(I will reply to your last email properly tomorrow as I am too tired to type at the moment – coursework got me so hard I’m hanging off me chair like yesterday’s dirty laundry – but I had to acknowledge this masterpiece straight away.

Though I will say that, yes, it could have been worse. John Johnson Lennon sounds like a porno name. It’s a good thing you weren’t born in 2019. For more reasons than this, of course. Like, I don’t reckon it would be that much fun being mates with a newborn.

And one last thing, because it’s important: I’m sure your poetry is beautiful. A blind man could see that you’re talented with words. Well, not a blind man, I guess, unless you read it out to the poor sod, but… yeah. You get my meaning. Stop worrying.)

.

**From:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** “Monkberry Moon Delight” should be a song

Johnny,

I have risen from the dead and am once again in working order. At least until my next course assignment. Of course, I might have to go back to Hades’s cold embrace tomorrow morning as Brian has decided that it is “absolutely paramount that we give this place a good old sweep-around”. In other words, we will be taking stock all day at the store.

The joy.

You see usually I’d be more than happy to pick me marry way through Bri’s dusty collections of LPs and (honest to God) cassette tapes, because, well, music makes me happy and holding them gives me that nice sort of feeling you get when you’re drinking a cocoa on a rainy day… but he did not choose the best of times for this particular “sweep-around”, the posh bastard. In fact, I think he noticed how tired I was (I am literally stumbling over the bags under my eyes, John! It is not pretty!) and decided that this would be a torture-your-Paul day. He says a good stock-taking builds character, no doubt something his mother repeated to him when he was little as she stuffed him into miniature three piece suits.

I mean, I love my boss, but sometimes I want to pull the tape from the cassettes and strangle him with it. Just as lovingly as you want to throttle your aunt, of course. He’s a top notch bloke when he’s not being a giant pain in the arse. Maybe we should introduce him to Mimi.

Now for the important bit:

Ta for the free coffee! It probably saved my life. And also made me grin like a soft lad. You were right, it is nice to drink a warm cup of coffee from time to time. I put the empty cup up on a shelf right above my desk as an inspiration for when I’ll (inevitably) cry over my coursework again.

The poem makes me sound like one cool cat. (Only thing is, I wouldn’t say that I’m not tall! What would Ringo be, then?! You can barely see the man behind the counter at Starbucks as it is!)

Your friend Cyn was there that night and I must say – what a classy girl! She told me that you two used to date but that she had gotten tired of having all of the brain cells in the relationship.

I like her.

(As she was putting the lid on my cup, she also said that it’s *clearly* still preferable to couples with no brain cells whatsoever between them. I heard Ringo laugh in the back when she said that. She then proceeded to squint her eyes at me – not unlike you had done. What is it with you lot and squinting? Are you all blind as bats or soft in the head?)

Most importantly: I finally went through my notebook (thanks for returning it!) and I noticed your edits on some of my lyrics. They’re good. And bloody hell, you nearly finished “I’ll Get You”! I love the middle eight that you added. I don’t usually have problems with middle eights, but I couldn’t quite crack it in this song. Yours fits in perfectly:

Well, there's gonna be a time  
When I'm gonna make you mine  
So you might as well resign yourself to me

It’s fab, honestly... though I think it needs a “yeah” or two somewhere in there and I think we should swap the “change your mind” in the second verse for “make you mine”. What d’you reckon?

Y’know had anyone else intervened with my work like that, I’d scream bloody murder, but somehow this feels right. How did you *do* that, John? It’s like you’re flirtin with my muse and she’s flirtin right back – the tart!

I was so excited about it I played the song fragment to me mate George and he was like “your Starbucks barista wrote that middle eight?” and I was like “yeah? so?” and he said “he wrote *these* lyrics? Into *your* notebook? The very same notebook you never show to *anyone*?” and I said “yeah?” and he raised his (very prominent) eyebrows at me like I was a crazy fookin person.

I suppose he doesn’t appreciate our creative process, John. Anyway, it’s got a melody now. Once I read your middle eight it finally popped into me head. Just like that. What a relief! I get anxious when I can’t hear the music for one reason or another. It was like a Christmas miracle. Only in February.

Also:

Why didn’t you make yourself known if you saw me walking Martha? That’s just daft. I know I said we shouldn’t take our friendship to the real world yet, but that doesn’t mean you should be skulking around in shadows if you see me outside, ya creep! This is not a restraining order situation y’know. I *was* wondering why Martha started growling out of nowhere, though (she never growls).

Honestly, Lennon, what am I going to with you.

Anyroad, Martha doesn’t have a hateful bone in her body and she sure as hell doesn’t bite. She was probably just a little scared, because you were hiding and she wasn’t sure where you were. Don’t take it personally. She’s afraid of everything. I mean, she gets anxious and mouthy when the fur on her head grows over her eyes. It’s like she goes “Oh nay! the w'rld! T is gone! I must now whineth in an obnoxious mann'r to al'rt mine own human!” (I have no idea why I just made her talk like a Shakespearean character, but it is what it is.)

To that end, I really don’t know if I should be offended or flattered by what Sir David Attenborough said in your email. While the man is a national treasure and everything I want to be when I grow up, I’m not sure I appreciate his appraisal of me features?! Should I be offended? Tell Sir David that I am a rough and strong manly man, please. I’ve certainly never had any complaints. Has he *seen* my hairy forearms?

You might be surprised to read this, but I actually use the lav at our house to play the guitar sometimes, so I do know of its acoustic properties, actually. I might try out “I’ll Get You” in there one of these days. I bet the harmonies I have in mind for the song would sound just marvellous. I wonder if two people and a guitar could fit in there…

Now I’m doubly-distraught that we never met as kids! I would have loved to join your group – as you by now know, I am short on neither dogs nor moons.

Here’s a question, though – since you used to have a band, did you ever write any songs? I would love to see them/hear them/play them/grind them up and snort them like coke/whatever else one might do with them to take them in properly. I wager they’re marvellous.

Write soon as I may perish before your noble note reaches my door.

I remain, dear sir, your obedient servant,

Paul

P.S. I love mornings! I have no idea what you’re talking about, they are the best part of the day. As for sleeping, as far as I’m concerned, it only takes away from the time I need for composing and making music. Once they invent dream-composing, though, I am signing the hell up.

.

**From:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** I think my muse fancies your muse

(And who are we to stand in the way of their love? I haven’t gone to pride marches since I was 16 years old for nothing, I’ll have you know!)

Macca,

Bleeding Christ! You’re putting me writing skills to shame with these long emails of yours! Who are you? Didn’t you say you couldn’t stand doing one thing for more than five minutes? Who’s writing these for yeh, then? Am I corresponding with your double? Is our country secretly controlled by a bunch of lizards in wigs?

Don’t lie to me, son.

Tsk tsk! You said you didn’t want to hang out in the real world yet and I respect that (even though I think it’s bollocks). It was bloody hard not to make meself known, too (though your horse of a dog made the decision a little easier).

I’m getting to that point where I can scarcely stop myself from jogging over to Allerton and kidnapping you several times a day. It’s the kind of urge that makes one want to tie you up in my basement so that you can talk to me 24/7. (In a non-pervy way, actually.) Like, I am interested in everything an anything you could ever say. Y’know what I mean?

The fact that you quoted from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland in your previous email like it was a regular occurence and then had the audacity to use (mock)Shakespeare’s English in your last email only made me more aware of the fact that you’re probably some kind of a unicorn. Or not a unicorn, but maybe some sort of hallucination. Maybe I should talk to my therapist about changing my meds around. I don’t suppose it’s normal to have an imaginary friend at 24 years of age!

Speaking of Lewis Carroll, I’m still considering applying to the PhD programme and I might actually do my project on him. There’s something so timeless about the book. Whether you read it in the 19th century or the 21st century, it just *works*, you see. And the characters are so vivid. I keep wantin to be different characters at different points in life. Most of the time I want to be the Cheshire Cat, though.

So, you wish to be David Attenborough when you grow up? I can see it all plain in me head, clear as a bell: you as a “sir”, kissing all of the queen’s rings (and possibly other jewellery? I don’t know the exact protocol but there ought to be kissing involved) or whatever one is supposed to do when one is being knighted. Not my kind of thing to be honest, but to each his own. Her majesty’s fashion game, at least, is on point.

And game recognises game.

Yes, Cyn and Ringo are great and all and I would walk across a burning pile of legos for them, but sometimes they overdo the teasing a little bit. The other day they put a sticker over me Starbucks nametag and wrote “bisexual disaster” on it in sharpie. What disrespect! I am, after all, their manager!

Joke’s on them, though, because I wore it like a bleeding badge of honour for days until Cyn begrudgingly took it off because our customers were looking at us funny.

I don’t know why she lets stuff like that get to her. Customers always look at me funny – sticker or no sticker. I like to think it’s because I’m unusually handsome.

And yes, Cynthia is indeed as blind as a bat (as you can imagine, we were quite the duo back in the days of yore when we dated). That said, there’s a world of difference between her blind squinting and her I-call-bollocks squinting. I am guessing you weren’t too far away from her at that point, so it must have been the latter.

Now here’s something interesting: Your mate George showed up in my shop yesterday morning. Of course I had never seen him before so I had no idea who he was, but turns out he and Ringo know each other! I would’ve never ever imagined this in a million years! I was in the back doing some bleeding paperwork (and when I say bleeding, I mean it literally – I got a paper-cut) and suddenly I hear this strong Scouse accent followed by Ringo’s (very distinctive) laugh.

When I came out, he introduced himself as “George Harrison” and looked me up and down with a skeptical glint in his eye (at least I think that’s what it was, it was hard to concentrate on anything else but the eyebrows). He said: “So yer the famous John, then?”

I nodded (like a daft sod, because I was too shocked to speak). Apparently you’ve been talking about me? Wonders never cease.

He then continued, “You wrote that middle eight for Paul’s song, didn’t you?” I nodded, although it didn’t really sound like a question. More like an accusation. Or, not an accusation, but he said it in that sort of tone one uses when talking about one’s parents having sex – kind of resigned, slightly pissed, but altogether amused?

I don’t think he blinked once, by the way. He might be one of the secret lizard people. You should check. I’m honestly not sure whether he disapproved of me or not. Maybe you should find out? Not that I care, y’see.

I wanted to ask him (everything) about you, but then the morning crowd really hit the shop and I lost him in the sea of <strike>vampires</strike> students. I’m going to have to have some serious words with Ringo for never mentioning he knows that cranky bastard, though. This is unacceptable – I am his boss and he should not be withholding vital pieces of information from me! Even the notion!

You practise harmonies on the lav? Is that what “There’s A Place” is actually about? I respect that.

Yes, I did write songs at that. I’m not sure I want to share 16 year old Lennon’s lyrics with you, though. You’d laugh your arse off.

Also, wow. Your description of listening to music is… certainly colourful! I haven’t even known you for that long but I can safely say there’s not a drop of blood in your body, McCartney. It’s all music, innit. Melodies and notes and clefts and whatnot. If I cut you, you’d bleed out a fucking sonata and write it down in your little notebook, wouldn’t you? I’ve never met *anyone* so obsessed with music. And I met Prince once, mind you (it was at his concert in London and I was, like, all the way in the back of the arena, but it still counts!).

I was going to reply to your comment about your hairy arms, but every time I start thinking about it, my brain short-circuits. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.

That said, there’s nothing wrong with having soft features – have you seen my thighs? I mean, not to toot my own horn, but the reviews have been excellent. Though I suppose you wouldna have noticed it since I was behind the counter when you saw me. It almost, ALMOST, seems like you should pay my coffee shop a visit when I’m actually here to take a look for yourself, doesn’t it?

I’ll just leave that hanging, shall I.

Don’t be a stranger, sir Paul.

John

P.S. It should definitely be “make you mine” and don’t you *dare* change it because I *will* fight you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple things:  
1) Thank you so much for reading and commenting! I will consider this thing a success if it makes you laugh at least once per chapter. If you want to support this little fic on tumblr, [here's this chapter's post](https://slippingintostockings.tumblr.com/post/190195624619/you-might-well-arsk-ch-4fandom-the-beatles-jp).
> 
> 2) Go and listen to "I'll Get You" and you'll see that John and Paul sing different lyrics in the middle eight. It's crazy that they left the mistake on the record – this is how fast everything was going at the time. Madness.
> 
> 3) Finally, here's "John's" full poem in case the cup is hard to read:  
_  
I knew a lad who called himself Paul  
And only listened to rock'n'roll  
He wore a jacket of berries'n'straw  
And though he wasna very tall  
He had me constantly in awe  
_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John's eyebrows fly away and Paul gets a funny feeling.

**From:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Unusually handsome? You’re unusual for sure.

Dear John,

If our muses want to frolic in the fields together, I certainly won’t be opposed (as long as they stay safe). Love is love, after all, innit.

There is a simple answer to why my emails are so long and it’s called “procrastination”. So no, it’s not the lizard overlords, I’m afraid, just little ole me procrastinating me merry way through the Spring semester. I admit I rather fancy your offer to chain me up in your basement, since I can’t imagine dealing with yet another stupid assignment right now. Anything would be better than that. I don’t need much to keep me alive, promised. Just bring me some water and apples from time to time. And an array of musical instruments, of course.

That said, I don’t think Mimi would be all that pleased if a strange man was living in her house. I haven’t even met her yet and you want me to expose myself to her in this way? Can you imagine her coming down the steps and seeing me there, half-naked and all chained up like some excessively hairy version of Princess Leia?

Scandalous. (Does your house even have a basement?)

Thank you for telling me about your parents. It seems like it’s really personal, so obviously you didn’t have to share that with me. Thing is, I didn’t exactly grow up in a two-parent household either, so that’s another thing we have in common. Or I did, but my mother died when I was fourteen, so my teens were kind of crap. Though unlike you, I had (and still have) a great support system. Dad’s been a star player of this team, honestly.

I realise I keep whinging about school to you, but it’s such a bloody bore, John, you can’t. even. imagine. You’re so lucky you’re studying something that fills you to the brim with happiness. My studies aren’t all bad, but it just feels like such a waste of time. It’s like any extra moment spent in that class could be spent composing or making music (or, in the least, watching Call the Midwife on the Beeb with Mike).

Maybe I should actually talk to dad about dropping out, like you said. It’s really scary, though, because he’s the main reason I’ve been sticking to it. He really wants me to get a degree in music. He always says, "You’d be a certified musician, son! I could never do that in me youth!" I thought all you needed to be a certified musician was to make music. Suppose I was wrong. Then again, seeing me da’s eyes light up when he sees me playing ALL THE INSTRUMENTS at assemblies is kinda the best feeling in the world. I hate disappointing him. I’d rather have my toenails pulled. (And I like my toenails.)

Thanks for reminding me of “There’s A Place”, by the way. That song needs its harmonies tweaked. That’s always a complicated task for me since I’m only one person (tragically, despite being a Gemini, I still haven’t managed to find a way to split meself in two). Mike refuses to get into the lav with me to sing the lower part, so I’ve had to make-do with my phone. Usually, what I do is I record the lower part on my phone and then play it back when I’m in the lav and sing the higher harmony.

Peak art, son.

Say, how is your singing voice, John?

And sorry, luv, but I can’t help but feel like “make you mine” is a tad too possessive. I mean, what’s next? Song about a psychopathic stalker who’d rather see the object of his desire quartered and baked into fish pies than for them to be with another man? Honestly.

Blimey! I can’t believe George actually came into the shop! He always proclaimed he’d never go to Starbucks because it’s the epitome of American capitalism and he won’t stand for it because he wants to support local English businesses (My answer to that has always been, ok George but HAVE YOU TRIED their banana frappuccino..!? Of course, now I have even better reasons to go there, but that’s besides the point.). Sometimes he behaves like a grumpy old man. It’s like he was born a grumpy old man. He probably shot out of the womb wearing a pair of wellingtons and complaining about taxes.

Anyroad, I was counting on him never setting foot in “that american siren bird’s place” (his words), which is why I may have jabbered to him about you quite a lot without a single worry. What a fool I have been, eh.

Did he threaten you much? He could be feeling territorial, y’know. He’s used to being my only close friend. And I honestly don’t know how anyone can be threatened by an email conversation, but this is George we’re talking about. 98% of his brain is guitars and the remaining two is probably taxes. He doesn’t have the capacity to comprehend the intricacies of human relationships. I have no idea how his girlfriend manages it. Then again, maybe they get off on tax returns together – *I* certainly don’t presume to know everything about me mates and their relationships. Nor do I want to.

Speaking of – no, I did not know Ringo and George knew each other! It makes sense though – we are all from Liverpool, aren’t we. *Some of us* are bound to have met before. The two of us have just experienced an error in Matrix.

Are we talking the U of Liverpool or other programmes for your PhD? Or are you thinking about moving away? Because if you are, then I should indeed make it into the shop one of these days to come and see you before that happens. Not that your squinty muppety eyes and that fluffy cauliflower head of yours won’t stay etched into my retinas forever, y’know, but one needs to refresh one’s memories from time to time – to keep the brain young and all. For science.

The poetry competition sounds like a big deal, John! You should be proud of yourself! What’s the main prize, then? Will you get a trophy (and you will, because there is no way you won’t win)? Or is it a cash prize? And what will you do with it? Buy new pens? A swimming pool?

A diamond ring?

Anyway, I hope you’ll share those pieces with me one of these days (serious John sounds enticing, nay impossible). After all, you’ve read my personal notebook (repeatedly), so you owe me some words.

Get me those words, Lennon.

Until next time,

Paul

P.S. Thighs, huh?

.

**From:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Water and apples? Are you secretly a horse?

(And how do you play the guitar with your hooves?)

Paul,

I never said a word about you being *half-naked* in my basement and would like to point out that you added that bit all by yourself! I will say, however, that my eyebrows almost flew off my face when I read it (they will be catching them all the way up in Manchester, I hope they’ll return to me soon as they’re a vital feature of me person). You’re full of surprises, aren’t you Macca! Keeping me on me toes you are.

(I kind of love it.)

Mimi would definitely have kittens if she found you there, that’s for sure! Then again, she’d have them even if you were wearing a turtleneck, a pair of ski-pants, and a balaclava. She absolutely despises it when I have people at the house overnight without her permission. Especially if they’re men, which is tragic, because I do like it *so* when they’re men.

It’s a sad sad life of a Woolton bachelor.

And pray tell, Paul, how could our conjoined muses create any music together if you force them to use protection? Do I need to explain to you about the birds and the bees? How have you made it till 22? The mind boggles. *I* know about these things, y’see. I lost me virginity at 15, I’ll have you know (first lad in my year, thank you very much). She was an exchange student from Tokyo and I have no idea what she saw in me. She was considerably older and probably ended up leaving the country convinced she bedded a daft person, because the only Japanese I knew at the time was what I had retained from my childhood addiction to Naruto. (I say “at the time”, but even now, at the tender age of 24, the only Japanese I know is still what I had retained from Naruto.)

I bet your first time was all aromatic candles and smooth jazz. You seem like the kind of person who needs to have complete control over all that nonsense. Planned to a T, wasn’t it. You probably folded your clothes all nice before ye got in the bed with the bird, didn’t you. You can tell me, mate, this is a safe space.

Now let’s talk about the elephant in the room (or, should I say, the Macca in the shop???). Paul. My god. Why oh why would you come here at lunch when that’s the exact same time when ALL the students come here for their second dose of caffeine of the day?

Have you gone barmy or did you do it on purpose? I would have actually liked to have a conversation with you, you know, which I can’t possibly do when I’m swiping debit cards with one hand and steaming soy milk with the other, all the while struggling to engage in witty chatter with coffee-starved customers who are thisclose to crawling over the counter and snorting a line of grounds straight from the machine like coke!

None of us ever stop during these crazy raids. (I call the morning rush the blitz sometimes.) And I don’t let us stop. You see, my shop is like a Dickensian novel. I work my employees to the bone I do. Cha-ching.

Still, I can’t believe you actually came! Now I can be certain that you’re not just a figment of my overactive imagination after all (and also that you aren’t, in fact, perfect, because only a moron would come to a Starbucks at noon). I also noted that your hair has grown a little and... was it stubble I detected on your face? Truly shocking, McCartney (though splendiferous). If Mimi saw you like this, she definitely wouldn’t let you into our basement. (I, on the other hand, enjoyed seeing it very much.)

I hope you appreciated the change of music, at least. Just don’t tell Starbucks on me, please. They don’t like it when we don’t play the pre-approved music. I guess it has something to do with song rights and all that shite. I only hope there are no surveillance microphones in the shop. I just couldn’t resist playing a little Little Richard when I saw you, so sue me (but, like, please don’t, if you’re reading this, Sirs Starbucks bosses?).

Anyroad, if you ever manage to come back, maybe turn up around 10 next time? That’s usually our slowest time of the day. I’ll be the one in the green apron holding a single crimson rose.

And no worries, George didn’t really threaten me, per se. He just glowered at me quietly, looking like that Sam Eagle muppet (Are you sure George isn’t an English student, by the way? He’d fit in with us perfectly.). There isn’t much I can say in my defense, though, since I do want to get closer to you. I might as well be sincere. I don’t usually make friends easily, y’see. Don’t get me wrong, I have many acquaintances and I seem to attract unique people, but I rarely meet people who get me. The real me, I mean, not just the crazy me I put on when I want people to like me. Not to say the real me isn't crazy, though. That would be false advertising.

The parallels keep piling on! You might (not) be surprised to read that my mother also died when I was a teenager. It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t like to talk about it very much, because it feels like I’m poking myself in the eye with a sharp stick when I do. Then again, to be honest, it sort of feels sharp stick-y even when I don’t talk about it, because It’s always right there, in the back of me head. Some mornings when I wake up, just before my brain kicks in (I'm like an old computer, it always takes a minute for me to load), I forget for a while that she’s dead and when it begins to come back to me, I start panicking – cold sweats and everything. It’s like my head’s in a whirl. It’s been six years. I wonder whether it ever goes away?

Splitting yourself in two, Macca? How uncharacteristically kinky of you! Can you imagine, though? I mean, I would kill my double by sundown if that ever happened to me. It’s difficult enough for me to deal with just the one me that already exists, thank you very much!

ALL the instruments, he says. Which instruments can you play, then? Or, should I say, can’t play, rather? I mean, that might be faster. Let’s have the full list! Mine’s still just the harmonica and ukulele (though I can play any other guitar as well, I suppose), but I’ve always wanted to learn a little piano. Maybe you could teach me one of these days. In return, I can teach you to play the harmonica with your nose. Only I’m not sure whether yours will be up to the task as it doesn’t have the right shape (if one has a funny nose, one needs to invent other, even funnier uses for it so that people don’t get stuck on how funny it is by itself).

I *might* show you the poems if I actually win something – and that’s a big if. As far as the prize goes, you know I don’t actually know? I didn’t really look because it’s not really that important to me. Some of the most renowned British poets will be reading my work, which is already a big deal (I have been biting my nails up to me arms). I gather it’s a cash prize of some sort, but it can’t be that much. Poetry doesn’t exactly make ya rich, y’see, so no diamond rings, my friend.

As for my singing voice, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not exactly fond of it either. Sure, I can carry a tune and my range is quite good, but I don’t like the sound of it. It fit well enough with Johnny and the Moondogs because the whole group was peculiar (one of our instruments was a kazoo for Christ’s sake), but I can’t imagine being *full on* with my voice like you (presumably) are.

I only ever sing at the lavs at the shop, but those are usually sea shanties, which doesn’t really count (my voice is perfect for that shit). Other than that, my performances only belong in the shower, I’m afraid, so unless you happen to catch me there, you’re out of luck.

Burn this after reading,

John

P.S. Words, words, words.

.

**From:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** I thought you said I was a unicorn!

Dear John,

I’m going to have to stop reading your emails in public, because apparently my poker face is worth shite. I was reading your last email in the library when I got this feeling that someone was watching me (and the song “Somebody’s Watching Me” by Rockwell immediately popped into my head and wouldn’t stop playing – sometimes I really hate my brain). When I looked up, sure enough, the bloke sitting across the table from me was staring at me with a half-stoned, half-concerned look. Apparently, my expression had turned really somber when I was reading, because he said: “Mate, you lookin like your cat died or sumtin.”

So of course I fixed him with the most serious expression I could manage and said: “Actually, Timothy, it’s my mother who died.”

Mind you, I have no idea whether his name was Timothy. He just seemed like a Timothy. He got out of there pretty quickly, though. You should have seen his face. Priceless.

Speaking of dead mothers (pause for laughter),

I’m afraid that it never really goes away, John. It’s one of those things that only get a little better with time (and therapy, from what I’ve heard).

I didn’t see any Dickensian tropes in the shop, but it does seem like all your employees adore you... and the customers… oh my! I had no idea you were such a popular barista amongst the students. Is it mostly English students who come into your shop, then? I mean, they knew your name and everything and it looked like you remembered their coffee orders as well (impressive brainpower, Mr Lennon!). I hate admitting this, but I felt a bit daft, standing there on my own and sticking out like a sore thumb amongst all the wee Lennonites.

Funny feeling, that.

And I *certainly* appreciated that you put on Little Richard just for me! How did you know he was another favourite of mine? I don’t seem to recall ever mentioning him. It’s funny, y’know, because I’ve been trying for years to train my voice so that my vocals would be more like his. It still eludes me.

Not to forget: I also really appreciated when you hopped up on the counter to show off your thighs. You didn’t have to do that, you know. As in, you *really* didn’t have to do that. Especially not with so many customers demanding to be caffeinated at the time. I thought they were going to mob us, y’know. I believe I also may have spied one of my music professors in the back. He looked scandalised at the sight of your lewd act. That said, it was probably the funniest thing I’ve seen all week. Well, that and Timothy. You certainly make me laugh, Lennon!

I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer, but I was already in Brian’s bad books for being late for work that day (I overslept if you can quite believe it, hence my disheveled hair and unshaven face) and didn’t want to risk coming in late from my lunch break as well.

I don’t know whether we *get* each other (and fuck, we’ve only known each other for like three bleeding seconds, John!), but I can certainly identify with that feeling of putting on a persona for people to like you. I do exactly the same thing. I don’t know if it’s a performer thing or if it’s a personality quirk, but I can’t seem to stop. It’s always a relief when someone manages to see through that front – through Saint Paul, Mr PR man, as I call him – and actually gets to know the real Paul. It’s funny/scary that you’ve managed it so fast (three fookin seconds, John!).

It’s like you’re wearing a pair of x-ray goggles only you’re not seeing through people’s clothes to look at their knickers but you’re seeing through my bullshit to look at me.

How exhilarating.

Now, I’ll have you know that there’s nothing wrong with candles and smooth jazz! I like to do a bit of romancing from time to time. That said, my first time wasn’t exactly that. She was a casual friend of mine. It was summer. We had nothing to do. So we did each other in her parents’ bed while they were at work.That’s it. Sorry I don’t have a more exciting story for ya (though I will tell you that I was 15 as well, so stick that in your pipe!).

Of course the more exciting escapades (sexcapades?) came later as I discovered that sex was something I really really enjoyed – nearly (though that’s a big nearly) on a par with making music. I don’t know how to explain it, it’s just that with both sex and music there’s something about being sensual and connecting with that buried part of your brain that really does it for me. It’s better than doing drugs. Or adrenaline sports. I dig it.

And let’s see, I can play the guitar (probably any kind), the trumpet, the recorder (there is a “funny” story that goes with that, remind me to tell it to you sometime), the piano, autoharp, drums, and a little bit of harmonica… though I don’t really fancy it all that much because I prefer to sing while I play and you can’t do that when there’s something stuck in your mouth, now, can ya?

I do have a tiny harmonica that I always keep in me pocket, though – for emergencies. I don't think you should teach me how to play it with my nose. I don't want to explain to the doctors at the ER how a grown man could end up with a harmonica stuck up his nostril.

Then again, it's probably the less awkward option when it comes to objects in orifices.

As for what I can’t (but would like to) play one day, I’d really love to learn the bagpipes. I would also like to own a harpsichord. I don’t know why. It just feels like I should, y’know. There’s also this really weird Easter-European instrument called the cimbalom. It looks like a tiny table with strings pulled across the top. You play it by bashing the strings from the top with two sticks, so it’s both a string instrument and kind of a percussion. Just the thought of playing it makes my heart palpitate (in a good way, not in an I have a cardiac condition sort of manner).

Your nose is not funny, John! In fact, your face is probably one of the most interesting faces I’ve ever seen in me life. I’m not a fine artist or anything, but I’ve always had this thing about faces and yours just begs to be drawn or painted of sculpted or whatever. It’s one of those faces you can’t seem to get out of your mind, because there’s just *something* about it. I don’t know. Maybe I’m going barmy. Maybe you really etched yourself into my retinas with all that squinting and shaking your hair about.

Maybe this whole thing is a Stockholm Syndrome situation.

By the by, I started writing another song today and I’d really appreciate your input on it. I shall leave my trusty notebook with Ringo and Cyn at the shop in hopes that you’ll give it a look. It sort of just fell out of me the other night. It’s funny, because the majority of my songs start out as a melody and maybe a theme, but I rarely bash out a full set of lyrics like this. Perhaps that means that it’s not very good.

I suppose we shall see.

Take care,

Paul

P.S. O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! (I still want some actual words, John!)

P.P.S. I lowkey want to get you a “Woolton’s Most Eligible Bachelor” pin. Logging into Etsy as I type.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this time I'd like to give a shoutout to [yes_2days's series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/746139). As I was writing this chapter, I realised I was inadvertently treating her fics as canon (she had done so much research it basically is). Anyway, I said it would be a shoutout, so: AAAAAAAH.
> 
> Now, here's a fun question for the masses: If John and Paul really were in their 20s in 2020, which shows do you think they'd watch (besides Paul's family watching Call the Midwife, obvi, as we just established that as canon)? I honestly don't think Paul would watch many more on top of that (maybe the occasional season of The Voice), but John would be into several. I'm thinking Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency and Hannibal.
> 
> Finally, if you're enjoying my fic and want to spread awareness on tumblr, you can do so [through this post](https://slippingintostockings.tumblr.com/post/190292685894/you-might-well-arsk-ch-5fandom-the-beatles-jp). Thank you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John.

**From:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Unicorns are just happy horses anyway

Macca,

I’d like to preface this anecdote by saying I definitely wasn’t cyber-stalking you. Sometimes these things just happen, you see. Like chlamydia. Or Brexit.

Here I was, minding me own business, browsing YouTube for some what Ringo calls “gear tunezz” (but actually I wasn’t, because every time I try to do that, I always circle back to Chuck Berry, The Everly Brothers, and my good pal Buddy), when I accidentally came across your cover of Little Richard’s “Long Tall Sally”.

Now, it also needs to be said that this happened *after* your visit of my shop, so it spooked me a little, not going to lie. Maybe the technology really is listening in on our lives. Or maybe I should clear out my chakras. Or cookies. Anyroad, I watched the video and then I (naturally) went down the rabbit hole and discovered yer entire YouTube channel.

And bloody crappin hell.

Here are my impressions in bullet points, because there is no way I can be coherent about this potentially greatest archaeological discovery since Tutankhamun’s tomb:

  * You looked like a mini Elvis when you were younger, down to that little curl over your forehead. (Unfair.)
  * Is that your backyard in the videos? I am digging the mise en scène of you sitting in a deckchair with a line of washing over your head. You’re like a little domestic garden deity.
  * Are you playing your guitar upside down in your cover of “Twenty-Flight Rock”, you cheeky bugger? (Who are you?)
  * Martha walking across the frame during your cover of “Till There Was You” and looking into the camera like she’s in The Office.
  * I really quite fancy “I’ll Follow The Sun” (who is it by?) but the sepia filter, Paul, honestly. (How are you so good at everything but so bad at …that?)
  * That video of tiny Paul McCartney and tiny George Harrison singing Christmas carols must be the cutest fookin thing since the newest Royal Baby.
  * Protect them.
  * Is that a cigarette I spy in your pre-adolescent fingers? Shocking.
  * The Little Richard vocal does not elude you, Paul. In fact, you make it yer bitch.
  * Eyebrows.

In conclusion, how dare you to have kept this gem from me? Haven’t I already proven myself to be most trustworthy? I showed you me thighs, fuckssake! I told you about me imaginary budgie! Me mother died!

I also notice that your last video is from 2018. Why did you stop making these? I would have loved to hear the finished harmonies in “There’s A Place” – or as I privately call it, “The Toilet Song”.

“The wee Lennonites” as you call them only hang around me because they think it’s going to affect their grades if they suck up to me. Spoiler alert: it will not, because a) the professor of that particular course I’m TA-ing dislikes me, probably because the students favour me over him b) I hate suck-ups. Nobody babied me when I was in my undergrad. Either IT’s in you or it’s not in you. If it’s not, get with the programme and… well, quit the programme!

And I obviously remember their coffee orders because of my perpetual need for approval, Paul, have you not been paying attention for all these weeks? Or, at least that’s what my therapist says (and I agree). They’re not that special. I still make it a point to completely butcher their names on their cups, of course. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.

You, on the other hand… the entire Myrtle St. Starbucks still talks about your visit. Apparently, I became quite unhinged under your scrutiny. Dirty lies if I ever heard any.

(I am always unhinged.)

Now for something completely different: I’ve been invited to an arts festival in Hamburg, Germany! This bird who’s organising it – Astrid… Something (but probably VonSchnitzel) – read a couple of my poems online and she personally called me up. As in: on my phone. (I didn’t know people other than Mimi still did that.) It was fairly last-minute and I had to decide really fast, but I feel good about agreeing to go. Apparently, there might be some professors from various English departments at the festival. I’m thinking it might be worth it to chat with them about PhD programmes. Not that I want to move to Germany… but it’s always good to explore all yer options, innit.

Anyway, I will be in Hamburg for a week starting this Sunday, so in case you want to keep cultivating that Stockholm Syndrome, it will have to wait until after I get back. Until then, it’s just the lovely Cyn and the lovely Ringo, I’m afraid. I have pre-labeled a couple of grande coffee cups with your name, though, in case you do pop in, to ensure that you don’t forget about me.

I may have gone a bit rogue with me sharpie and doodled some naked humenz and smartly-dressed animoles on some of your cups as well. I feel sorry for animoles sometimes because they’re always naykids in storees while we paradse around in what are often their actual skins.

Y’see.

What brought this on? The other night I had a dream that a sheep was shaving my legs while another sheep held me down (with surprising strength). They said they were going to knit the most marvelous jumper out of me leg hair and wear it to church. I wanted to ask them if they were going to wear the jumper on the front part of their bodies with only their front legs in the sleeves or if the jumper was going to have four sleeves, but then I woke up. I guess I’ll have to ponder this philosophical conundrum on my flight to Deutschland.

I gather your dreams aren’t quite as adventurous as mine. I’m also thinking maybe there’s something to that whole not eating animals thing you’re practicing. I shall add that to my list of conundrums.

Speaking of the shop, though…

…didn’t you say you were going to leave your notebook with Ringo or Cyn? Nobody has seen you around for a couple of days now, so I hope you’re doing all right and that you haven’t perished under all that coursework. Blink twice if they’re holding you hostage, Macca, because I will come and rescue you from the tower! Is your hair long enough to reach the ground from yer bedroom window? Somehow I don’t think it is. (Your eyelashes might as well be, though.)

How about yer sheets? Not to brag, but I know me way around sheets. And knots.

And are you daft? I wish I had a pair of x-ray peepers to see under people’s kits! That’s much cooler than seeing into people’s souls. Who wants to see people’s gross dark secrets anyway. I reckon Timothy was a prime example of how humans react to that kind of thing. Poor wee fellow is probably still breathing into a paper bag somewhere.

That said, I like that you said I can see through your bullshit, because I honestly feel like I’m communicating with a wall, sometimes. Sure, it’s a nice and secure wall – it’s made of sturdy bricks and there’s some lovely moss growing in the space between them, but it’s still a wall. And I am all for climbing it and all that, but you know what happened to Humpty Dumpty, right?

I am quite fond of me head (as opposed to me face despite all your lurvly talk). It’s where all my words come from.

All I’m saying is that you might want to think about building a window in that wall to let me look inside. Or better yet, some kind of a gate so I can come in. It doesn’t have to be big. Anthropomorphic eggs aren’t that much larger than regular eggs (I think).

Your description of music and/as sex made me remember that one time I shagged a fine artist in his studio. He told me that the first time you dip your brush into the paint and make your first stroke on a fresh clean canvas (he actually used the expression “virgin canvas”) can feel a bit like having sex with a new partner.

The analogy was so heavy-handed I lost my erection and had to think about Anthony Perkins in The Evening Primrose to be able to perform. What you’re saying makes much more sense and doesn’t make me want to gnaw my face off. I think that both our desire to have sex and make music (or write poetry) comes from the id. You’ve got to let it take over from time to time and allow yourself to be vulnerable if you want to reap the benefits.

Then again, I’m not a psychologist either.

You joke, Macca, but Mimi would make me wear a “Woolton’s Most Eligible Bachelor Pin” every day if she could. As far as she’s concerned, I am the catchiest catch in all of Liverpool and I am “ripe for the picking” (which, ew). She’s of the opinion that “finding a steady partner – or better yet, a spouse – would rein me in”. Maybe she thinks *I’m* a horse.

I’m no horse, but I just might be a zebra. Or an ass.

Re(ma)ins to be seen.

Write soon Macca and maybe you will get some words (words words) from the mother continent.

Later hosen,

John

P.S. I’m sorry to inform you that changing the gender in your cover of “My Boy Lollipop” did not make that performance any less camp.

.

**From:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Long may she reign

Dear Paul,

It has been over 5 days since me last email and still no word from you. Before I start panicking and imagining all the possible scenarios of why you suddenly stopped communicating with me, let me tell you about Hamburg.

All things considered, Hamburg is not all that different from home. It’s a harbour city as well, so when you’re walking along the Elbe and that familiar chill fills your bones and that familiar fish smell hits your nose, it’s almost like you’re back in good ole Liddypool – except everybody speaks German and all of the local hipsters have grown majestic moustaches.

Now, I’m not saying that our own home-grown hipsters (and I have served coffee to most of them, so I know what I’m talking about) do not have any facial hair, but somehow these German moustaches seem superior to me. It’s like there’s something in the German air that makes them grow all lush and shiny.

(Maybe it’s all that sauerkraut.)

It’s a bit scary when you’re up on a stage with a single spotlight shining upon you when you see a big moustache twinkle at you from the audience.

Speaking of being on stage – it was terrifying. Astrid assures me I was amazing and “sehr charismatic”, but I am not so sure. I don’t remember much of it, because my stage-fright is so terrible I always block these things out. I make it a point not to wear me glasses when I do a performance of any kind so that I don’t have to look at people’s faces, but somehow those moustaches made it through my protective barrier of short-sightedness.

I also made a new friend at the festival! His name is Yannis but I call him Magic Alex because he looks like what I imagine Dumbledore *actually* looked like as a twenty-something (minus the hair bun – or maybe including the hair bun?). He’s an Engineering student from Greece that came to the festival to show off his psychedelic electronica (which was in itself quite impressive, though it made me feel like I was tripping on funny scones in a bad way at some points). He’s been flirting with me quite aggressively and so far I’ve been resisting his cheeky advances as I am here on business, but I’ll be honest with you: this German air makes me weak (my hair looks fantastic, though).

Astrid is a part of this very hipster crowd that comes to The Top Ten Club. At first I tried to make myself likable to them but then I remembered our email conversation about putting up a front and decided that I’m too old to care what people think about me all the time. Incredibly, it appears that they like me anyway! Or, as Astrid's mate Jürgen said, “We zink yu're zee schit, Johann!”.

There’s nothing quite like hearing compliments in the German accent. Somehow it makes you feel like you’re being simultaneously scolded and fed soft apple strudel. (It leaves you slightly scared and slightly turned on.)

They have made me a list of the most interesting parts of the city to tour and boy oh boy, do Germans know how to party, Macca! I wish you could have been there to experience St. Pauli’s Reeperbahn with me, because this is not something one can really take in when one’s belonely. I would’ve taken Magic Alex with me, but somehow I don’t think he’d have the sense of humour to appreciate the street in all of its ridiculous and naughty glory.

Desperate for some like-minded company, I wondered into this random gay bar the other night where I struck an interesting conversation with a (Drag) Queen Elizabeth II, who, as it turned out, couldn’t comprehend my bisexuality (I was wearing a bisexual flag pin on my coat lapel and she pointed it out). Apparently, I might be betraying the gay community by keeping one of me feet in the closet. And here I was thinking both my feet were merrily tripping the light rainbow-tastic.

Honestly, the whole thing was really confusing for me, because despite my low-key anti-royalism, Mimi had beaten into me as a child that I must always respect the Queen, and so all I could do was slip into a really posh accent and engage that arsehole in a conversation about how handsome prince Philip was in the 1940s.

I reckon arguing with her about bisexuality would’ve been a bit like living in a crossover of Pinocchio and the Queen of Hearts from Alice. I’d try to convince her that I’m a real boy and probably end up losing me head, and as we’ve established, we canny afford that as my head holds all my words in it.

Is it daft to say that I miss you even though we barely spent any time together? I definitely miss your messages, one way or another. But I reckon you’ve been too busy (hopefully making new YouTube videos) to write.

God save the Queen,

John

P.S. D’ye reckon I should grow a moustache, then?

.

**From:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Attachment: **[I_Sat_Belonely.png](https://66.media.tumblr.com/ee7b1146ed65eb2f9c87ee51b839cf22/dd98441e6267b94b-e5/s540x810/d346deb75eb82b76364675f2a720fe96a6b82ac5.png)  
**Subject:** No reply

I’ve been back from Hamburg for a week and still no reply. Ringo and Cynthia reported that they have not seen you in the shop the whole time I was gone, which made me worry about you. George hasn’t been back either, so that’s a no-go. Seeing as I don’t have your number nor do I know where exactly in Allerton you live, short of going from door to door, I have no other way to reach you but through the fickle medium of the electronic mail.

Here’s a list of possible reasons why you haven’t been replying to my messages:

  1. You actually perished under your coursework
  2. You fell into the lav while practicing your harmonies for <strike>“There’s A Place” </strike>"The Toilet Song”
  3. Your dad took away your internet privileges and you don’t know where the router is to turn the Wi-Fi back on
  4. You were attacked by a gang of sheep who are holding you hostage to get to your (considerably lusher) leg hair
  5. Martha sat on you
  6. Martha sat on your laptop
  7. Someone other than me chained you up in their basement for their sick pleasure
  8. Martha sat on your laptop *and* your phone
  9. <strike>You forgot I exist</strike> You were offended by my sheep dream
  10. You eloped with some pretty bird from the music department who plays the flute, has the perfect finger technique, and can milk a cow and are currently enjoying a honeymoon at the Isle of Wight (with no Wi-Fi)
  11. Martha ate my last two emails

Honestly, that’s all I got. I canny really imagine what’s wrong, to be fair. Just… maybe write back, yeah? At least to let me know what I did (or didn’t do) wrong and I will either undo it or do it right. Or I will try to, anyway.

All that said, I promised you words a long time ago, so I’m sending you the poem I got to perform in Hamburg in the Top Ten Club in front of all them shiny moustaches – all typed up and fancy. I hope you can appreciate the illustration as well.

I wrote it a couple of weeks ago after a therapy session in which I struggled to explain to my therapist how it feels to be in that phase of my illness when I can feel myself scrambling out of depression. On the one hand, you’re finally getting out of the bottom of that dark pit with all this new energy coming in (though it’s the kind of energy that can easily trigger your manic phase), but the ground is slippery under your feet and everything that seems to be within grasp (all those potentially surprising and beautiful things) eludes you.

It feels a little bit like there’s plexiglass between you and the rest of the world and you can’t get your hands through that barrier to touch things or to communicate with the world properly even though you can hear and see everything just fine (if you remember to wear yer glasses, that is).

This is what I mean when I talk about how lonely mental illness can be. It can hurt so much more when you can actually see what you’re missing.

Anyroad, I hope you like it.

With antici…

…pation,

John

P.S. Don’t be that tiny little tiny pig who got up and flew away, Macca.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...as you can see, things are getting a bit complicated. Or are they? #DRAMA
> 
> By the way, I've never actually been to Hamburg (though I've been to Germany countless times), so I don't know how shiny their moustaches actually are (if at all).
> 
> **Three more things:** 1) "I Sat Belonely" is obviously John Lennon's actual poem and I claim no ownership of it. You can find it in _In His Own Write_. 2) I made myself [this moodboard](https://slippingintostockings.tumblr.com/post/190323368944/its-like-youre-wearing-a-pair-of-x-ray-goggles) for inspiration if you wanna peep it, and also, 3) [here's](https://slippingintostockings.tumblr.com/post/190411175759/you-might-well-arsk-ch-6fandom-the-beatles-jp) this chapter's tumblr post in case you wanna help spread my fic to the masses through a reblog. Thanks!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out what happened to Paul.

**From:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Sticks and stones may break my bones, but sheep don’t offend me

(In fact, I often prefer them to people.)

Dear John,

It’s a good thing you didn’t go door to door in Allerton as that would only ever result in two possible outcomes: either someone would punch you out or you’d end up invited into every single one of those doors and aggressively fed tea and several fingers of whiskey.

One way or another, you’d never make it to my house in an upright position. More importantly, I wouldn’t have been able to tend to your wounds.

Why? Because – dramatic pause – I have been tending to mine.

Now, don’t get freaked out or anything, but I was in an accident about two weeks ago. I have a mate called Tara who has this really lovely portofino green Vespa. He was visiting from London when one evening (after inhaling a couple of pints at The Phil and sharing a joint behind The Phil) we decided it would be a smashing idea to take it on a ride out into the country to see my cousin Betts.

Was it a clever thing to do? No. Did I really care at the moment? Also no.

Looking back, I know that in me high mind I fancied meself a lonesome (or should that be belonely?) cowboy riding a bronco through the Wild West – all that power between your legs makes you feel like you’re in control of everything, even if that “everything” is actually falling apart in reality, y’know.

I needed to be in control that night – at least for a little while.

Tara didn’t have as much beer as I did (he might be an heir to the Guinness fortune but interestingly he is not all that fond of drink) and therefore we agreed he’d be the one driving. So, ‘ere we are, burnin some serious rubber on a dirt road somewhere between Liverpool and Wirral – when I saw it.

The full moon.

Have you ever looked at the Moon, John? And I mean *really* looked, not just glanced briefly at it and thought “ay ‘ere’s the moon”? I often hear music in me head when I look at the Moon. She’s one gorgeous lady, I’m telling you (and I know ladies). She’s like a beautiful giant beach ball that you want to pluck out of the sky and then drop it on the ground only to watch it bounce in front of ya like a glowing orb…

…it’s a really sexy astronomical body is all I’m sayin.

Anyroad, Tara’s driving the Vespa with me clutching his tiny waist like a capuchin monkey when he hears me gushin about the Moon like a soft lad. And the thing you need to know about Tara (bless him) is that he is the gentlest soul you’ve ever met – I swear he was secretly kidnapped from Rivendell as a baby – so, of course, he wants to see the lunar beauty for himself and looks up, momentarily losing the smidgen of control he has over the scooter in the first place.

The road hits me smack in the head and before I manage to hit it back, everything goes dark.

When I wake up I’m in the ER and me face feels like it’s just been peeled with a potato peeler. There’s a doctor next to my bed who’s snapping on a pair of surgical gloves and the sound is so loud it’s like she’s setting off fireworks inside my ear canal.

She goes, “Hello Mr McCartney, you’ve been in a road accident and we suspect that you might have a concussion. Can you tell me your first name and what day and year it is?”

At this point I’m so confused (what if I went into a coma and travelled back in time like Sam Tyler in Life on Mars?) and anxious (I’m not too fond of hospitals, for obvious reasons) that I stone-cold seriously answer “June 18, 1997” because somehow in my pummeled brain I’m convinced she’s asking about me date of birth.

She chuckles and goes “Do I seem like a Princess Diana to yeh, luv?”, which confuses me even further (honestly, medical professionals should not be allowed to make jokes in times of medical emergency) and so I go “Well not with that accent.”, which makes her quirk her eyebrow into the shape of the Silver Jubilee bridge.

When poor Tara, who had been sitting outside the ICU biting his nails up to his shoulders at a rate that would soon turn him into Venus de Milo because he was convinced he’d killed me, was finally allowed into the room and saw my face, I shit ye not, he started weeping.

Why? As it (unsurprisingly) turns out, not only did I have a concussion but I also somehow managed to slice my eyebrow and my upper lip against the pavement and also chipped one of my incisors. I had to get stitches, so I ended up looking like Frankenstein’s monster tried to chop down a tree with his teeth.

Long story short, that’s one of the reasons why I haven’t been in touch with you. Of course, that’s not really an excuse. I was only in the hospital for that one night and it only took one more day for me to be able to look at me phone and laptop screen without feeling like me had was being bashed with hammers.

So I could’ve replied. I could’ve gone round to Starbucks and drink a line of Macca’s Monkberry Moon Delights through a straw.

I could’ve told you what had happened.

But I didn’t.

To be honest, that entire week was the perfect (shit)storm. I was already so anxious because I had finally decided that I was going to quit uni, but the thought of breaking it to me da made me want to scratch my entire body raw. And then there was that bleeding song I never delivered to you. That moronic Vespa stunt with Tara was the result of all that pressure.

Getting all bashed up made me feel vulnerable and needy and I *hate* feeling vulnerable and needy. It makes me feel like I have no control and we’ve already established many times in these conversations that that’s a McCartney no-no. It’s embarrassing to say, but I was afraid that if I wrote to you, you’d come running to me side. I would not’ve been able to handle that.

Then you went on your trip to Hamburg and seemed to have such a lovely time there with your friend Mustard Alec (or whatever) I didn’t want to spoil it by dropping such a bomb on yeh via email (funnily enough, here I am doing it now). And the more time went by, the harder it became to write to you.

I decided that I wanted to write a song about the experience the other day. I was thumbing through my notebook trying to find a blank page when I came across that song I never managed to show you.

Reading the words again made me realise that there is a difference between anxiety and titillation. And so I’ve decided to stop being a coward and write you back.

To get you to forgive me, I have finished and recorded the song and put it up on my YouTube channel. My auntie Gin surprisingly really digs it. She made me play it to her over and over when she was at the house nursin me to health. (In another world I might have called it “Auntie Gin’s Theme”. She does like my bouncy country tunes. But this is not her song.)

Interestingly, horses seem to be a theme with both of us lately. Maybe it’s a sign that we should run away to Texas and live the rest of our days at a ranch.

How’s your American accent, partner?

Yee-haw,

Paul

P.S. I was originally going to put a bag over me head to cover me face so that you wouldn’t see me ghastly injuries, but then I thought it would be way too ironic given the subject of the song.

.

**From:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Are you saying you want to shag the moon?

(Maybe yer just going through a lunar phase, ohoho.)

Paul,

Cynthia tells me you stopped by the shop the other day and purchased five coffees to make sure that all of my pre-labeled cups got used. While I am touched by the sentiment, I have to admit I am a little bit concerned about the amount of caffeine and blended banana you ingested on my behalf.

You’ll certainly have the best potassium levels in all of Liverpool (good for recovery), but nobody will be able to see you if yer zooming around the city like a slightly deranged Scouse Sonic the Hedgehog.

Still. Let me start this email properly (though I am mildly aware I’m already five paragraphs in) by stressing how glad I am that you’re alive and surprisingly well given the fact that you basically French-kissed several yards of a hard dirt road because you got horny for the moon. (Please remind me to never take you to the Planetarium.)

A propos, have you ever heard “Mr. Moonlight” by Roy Lee Johnson? I reckon it might grind your corn (peel your banana?).

And I do forgive you, Paul, but it’s bold of you to assume that I didn’t subscribe to your YouTube channel as soon as I found it. In fact, I was over the moon (ey!) when I got the email notification about a new Macca video!

I thought the song indeed had a very bouncy horsey country skiffley whiskey blue-grassy feel to it. It made me want to put on a cowboy hat and a pair of assless shotgun chaps and strut me way down Menlove Avenue like Leo DiCaprio on the set of Inception. And that’s really not a typical John Lennon look (I used to wear a lot of leather as a teenager, but now I’m more of a wool and corduroy kinda person), so props to the music. Your auntie sure has good taste.

I was even more into the lyrics and how you sang them, though. I particularly fancy how the way you can barely breathe throughout the song perfectly captures that feeling of falling in love, like you can’t get a proper breath in because everything is happening so fast and you’re falling, falling, falling arse over teakettle for them. It’s like being drunk but having this person-specific tunnel vision at the same time. Even though everything around you is blurred, you can see their face as if it were in HD.

Speaking of faces, I feel it would be remiss of me as an English student if I didn’t point out to you that – despite the stereotypical grotesque depiction of the monster in cinema – Victor Frankenstein actually spent a ridiculous amount of time collecting the sexiest body parts he could get his hands on to make his creation. He actually says “I had selected [the creature’s] features as beautiful” in the novel.

Of course, when he put all of the parts and features together, the whole thing turned out to be incredibly off. Not grotesque – but off. A prime example of Freud's uncanny.

But that’s not your case. Even though separately the features of your face are ridiculous and should not under the laws of aesthetics (or logic, really) work together, somehow they do. You’re like the *reverse* Frankenstein’s monster. With a chipped tooth. And eyebrows that look like someone had slashed through one of the golden arches of McDonald’s.

You’re like Picasso’s “Seated Dora Maar”.

Did you really quit uni, then? Should I be congratulating you? Or? How do you feel about it? What are you going to do instead? And – more importantly – does that mean your email address will be suspended? Because I swear to bleedin Christ if you leave me hangin like that one more time I will personally ransack every house in Allerton (I can take all the punches, whiskeys and fingers) to flick you in that injured eyebrow.

While you’ve been divorcing our dear uni, I’ve been walking deeper into the belly of the beast – applying to PhD programmes all over the country. I’m starting to get really excited about where I might end up. I really liked my German adventure and I’m ready for more. That said, I’m going to miss Liddypool. It’s incredible how even after 24 and some years of living in this city it can still surprise you. Like, I still haven’t really gotten over the fact that you have lived here with me for 22 years of those 24 years and we’ve never met and become friends before now.

It’s one of those things that just doesna make any sense. Like false pockets. Or gendered food products. Or mutton chops. Or the fact that there’s no mouse-flavored cat food.

Have I ever told you about me cats, by the way? Well, settle the bleeding hell down, because this might take a while:

We have three – Tich, Tim, and Sam. They’re excellent cats who are basically in charge of the house (although they let Mimi think she is). 90% of my days I wake up with a cat arse in my face and loud mewing (or in better case purring) in my ear as they demand to fed and worshipped like the gods of Mendips they truly are. Sometimes they’re the only thing that gets me out of bed. And then sometimes I can’t get anything done because Tim will fall asleep on my chest and I’m pretty sure there’s a law against moving when there’s a sleeping feline on you. Of course this suits me to a T because I don’t really like to get things done unless I absolutely have to.

And sleeping is nice.

You could say I am a bit of a house cat myself. I too like to perch in high altitudes and stare at people. I dream of living in one of those majestic skyscrapers like West Tower one day as that would really satisfy my voyeuristic tendencies. Not in a kinky way, though – it’s more like a creative sport – people-watching. You don’t even have to be high up to do it. I actually started doing it on slow days at the coffee shop when I’d get bored. I would watch the customers and make up stories about their lives.

You seem like a person who might enjoy doing that as well. We should go people-watching together sometime…

…how about it? I think it sounds far better than your plan of living on a Texas ranch (Like I said, leather is not my look anymore and I am also low-key afraid of horses. And Republicans.).

Take care, comb your hair, and steer clear of Vespas,

John

P.S. Magic Alex is going to visit me in Liverpool soon, actually. We’re talking about doing a project together. His music and my words. Maybe you could come and see it?

.

**From:** jamespmccartney@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** So I googled that Picasso piece you referenced…

…and originally I was going to be offended by the parable, but then I think I quite like the idea of being a work of simultaneous multiple perspectives.

Dear John,

So what you’re saying is that you’re basically a crazy cat lady in skinny jeans. I respect that about you.

I’ve always been more of a dog person, but there’s something about cats that really entices me. I think it’s the challenge in getting them to like you – it doesn’t take much to get dogs to adore you to bits. I’m pretty sure Martha thinks I’m some sort of a two-legged god (who’s also unreasonably bad at digging). Every time I come home she’s so happy to see me I’m a bit worried she might have a stroke. The other day I went to the lav and she howled so woefully at the door the entire time you’d think I was being devoured by the porcelain throne. I was actually just taking a quick piss.

She’s a very good girl.

Cats aren’t like that. You have to earn their love and even then you never 100% know where you stand. That’s exciting to me.

And I agree with you about leather. Not only is it unnecessarily made of dead animals when you can get some gear faux stuff these days, but it’s also a bit jejune. I much prefer something with more pizazz. Like, instead of leather chaps I’d wear a really dramatic black cape if I wanted to stand out.

Now that I think about it, I could totally pull off a Zorro type look. I’d grow a droopy moustache to cover my lip scar and even get a mask. I’d be a struggling musician by day and a dashing Scouse vigilante by night – protecting the streets from bad singing and incorrectly tuned instruments. Those Hamburg moustaches of yours would have nothing on me.

Does your friend Macabre Albert have a mustache, then?

I’d love to go see what you lads come up with as I’ve always been low-key interested in electronica, but I’m afraid I don’t have the time at the moment. Quitting uni definitely isn’t a simple venture and there are so many things I need to do.

For starters, Brian increased my hours at the record store so now I’m there all day every day with only him for occasional company, which has been doing my head in. Sometimes it’s like you’re on a permanent visit at your gran’s house only your gran is the Queen of England with a hoity-toity accent who also enjoys talking about sexual bondage. Perhaps we should send Brian to Hamburg to visit your (Drag) Queen Elizabeth II. They’d surely have a lot to talk about.

Secondly, I’m looking for a new place to live, because I no longer feel comfortable living under me dad’s roof now that I can make enough to pay full rent (of course when I say full, I actually mean half – I’m definitely getting a roommate as Brian’s vintage LPs and cassette tapes sure as fuck don’t make enough profit to support both our Bohemian lifestyles).

Finally, there’s been some chatter in the McCartney clan about a spring job in Scotland in March, so I might be going away for a bit to earn some extra £s (and look at some real sheep and green hills for a while).

So you see, no time to spare.

That said – aye, I will most likely be cut off by the suits (academic robes?) very soon, so you should probably use my personal email from now on, which is therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com. Don’t send me any more moon puns, though, or I will set up a filter that will take your messages straight to the Spam folder.

And I like your idea of people-watching. It definitely sounds like something I’d enjoy. I actually often prefer writing about “characters” rather than myself when I write songs, which is quite different from your poetry, I reckon. Being personal beyond the usual “I love her and she loves me and we both love each other, kumbaya” makes me internally shudder. Writing about random people off the streets has so much more potential and you don’t have to struggle with that feeling of being choked by a boa constrictor.

I really enjoy thinking about this one particular female character. She’s a girl in her mid-twenties living in a big city (not unlike Liverpool). She’s surrounded by people yet she always feels lonely. She’s the embodiment of the contradictions of the modern world – on the one hand she’s living this beige lifestyle where every day is identical down to her mass-produced clothing and repetitive job, but on the other hand she lives her life too fast to ever see any colour that *does* appear.

I feel like we’re all this woman living these contradictions – especially our generation. I don’t really want to be, though. Quitting uni was my first step towards that goal.

One more thing, though –

– did you say you practice this game during your shifts at Starbucks? Does this mean you made up stories about me when you first saw me, then?

I bet it’s something kinky and you better spill the (coffee) beans (though not anywhere near *me* for the foreseeable future as I’ve ingested enough caffeine for the rest of my productive life as you correctly assumed).

Hugs,

Paul

P.S. Does your budding partnership with Musty Allen mean you won’t have time to collab on any more songs with me? Let me know.

.

**From:** ivaughan@ucl.ac.uk  
**To:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: not to be tawdry, but did you say your grandad was going to a home?

Hi Paul!

It was great seeing you the other day. I hope you’re healing up well. Your eyebrow and lip didn’t look as bad as you made them out to be in your emails!

I finally asked me dad about the flat and he was very enthusiastic, actually. I reckon he’d jump at the chance to lease the old man’s place directly to someone familiar rather than do it through an agency or some shite.

He remembers you from the Inny still (“McCartney… that corpulent doe-eyed lad from Forthlin Road with that mischievous glint in his eyes? Sang in the church choir, didn’t he. Aye, he can have the flat!”).

To be honest, I didn’t know my dad knew the word corpulent. Or that he’d ever gone to church.

You and George can come and see the flat tomorrow afternoon if you want. I’ll text you dad’s number. (Hope you’re ready for some old man smell.)

Speaking of old men, how’s your da coping with losing his golden boy? I gather he threw a real fit over you quitting uni and all. Maybe I should get my mum to go over there and calm him down with a cuppa? Just say the word and I will activate the troops.

And now that this has been settled, let me get something else very important off my chest:

YOU KNOW JOHN LENNON.

*The* John Lennon, formerly of Quarry Bank High, currently of the English Department at the University of Liverpool, wavy hair, funny nose, cheeky grin, ridiculous knitted jumpers, novelty enamel pins, naughty poems on the girl’s lavatory wall John Lennon.

That John Lennon.

Notice that I have not posed this as a question but rather as a statement, because there is no fookin question that the “John” you oh-so-off-handedly mentioned in your email AND the person you <strike>talked about</strike> couldn’t stop talking about at The Phil is the same person and *is* John Lennon. *John Lennon*

John. Lennon.

The FUCK, McCartney.

Literally, I have been trying to introduce you to this guy for the better part of me life and now you tell me that you two have been flirting for over a month, like my life’s efforts are worth shite?

That John Lennon is sliding into Paul McCartney’s email inbox when I’m not even there to witness it because the winds of fate blew me to London?

I never. Unbelievable, son. The utter disrespect just tears me apart.

Anyroad, has he asked ye out yet, then?

Write soon ye tosser.

Si vales, valeo,

Ivan

P.S. John BLOODY Lennon!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bam! Thanks for reading everyone! 
> 
> In case it wasn't totally clear from the references, Paul's song was OF COURSE [this horsey gem](https://open.spotify.com/track/788U1Sqej9M6c4iikuDGxO?si=tFJbnMauTQ60ISrPdZ2iCA).
> 
> As usual, [here's](https://slippingintostockings.tumblr.com/post/190557982654/you-might-well-arsk-ch-7fandom-the-beatles-jp) this chapter's tumblr post.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's finally some tea.

**From:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**To:** ivaughan@ucl.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Actually, we’re just good friends

Dear Ivan,

First of all, cheers for setting everything up with your dad. Hazza and I went to see the flat and we’re moving in tomorrow! Can you believe it? Such a relief. I never imagined we’d find a place so fast! (Though I also never imagined I’d end up sharing a flat with someone who names their potted plants, but here we are anyway.)

To ease your mind – no, I don’t mind a bit of old man smell. *George Harrison* is my best friend, in case you forgot. And yes, da’s upset, but he’ll get over it. (Unless he perishes under the pile of dirty dishes that’s bound to accumulate in the kitchen in my absence as neither he nor Michael ever do any bloody chores.)

I definitely owe you one for this, mate!

And now for the trickier part of your email:

Indeed I do know John Lennon, though I am not so sure how I feel about the fact that you’ve known him for what you call “the better part of your life”?

And you’ve tried to introduce us?

What? When was this? How???

Am I suffering from some sort of selective amnesia? I feel like I’d definitely remember you mentioning someone like John. That lad is one of a kind. Was I high every time you mentioned him? What was my excuse to not meet him? Come to think of it, what was *his* excuse? How did we end up with a lifetime of so many near-misses? Most importantly, why didn’t you try harder???

It doesn’t make any sense is what I’m saying.

I feel drawn to John, honestly. We turn each other on with bits of lyrics and music and little jokes. It feels incredibly organic. I haven’t known him for that long, mind you, only since the beginning of the year, but we’ve shared some pretty deep info and it’s felt… natural. I mean sometimes impossible and ridiculous and really fookin weird since we’re sharing all this personal crap through email… but it’s also felt necessary. Vital, even.

Like finally breathing cold fresh air after you’ve been stuck in a stuffy room for hours.

It’s a very confusing friendship. Sometimes when I read his emails or see him in person I feel like I’m on a never-ending spinning teacup ride.

That said, there is NOTHING in me messages to you that even remotely suggests me n John are exchanging “flirty” emails. They’re regular emails (aren’t they?). I don’t flirt with blokes (do I?). And as for what I told you at The Phil… I don’t quite remember that conversation, mind you, but I assure you it wasn’t *like that* (was it?). I mean, I’ve always considered myself to be quite obviously un-gay due to my hunting of the female hordes…

Again, it’s a confusing friendship.

Nobody’s certainly “sliding” anywhere, though (and fucksakes, stop using words like sliding when you’re talking about epistolary correspondence unless it’s actually being delivered by snakes).

All I can say is that though it’s a newer bond, it’s weird how well me’nJohn get on (when I’m not pissing him off like recently). It’s like he can read me fookin thoughts through the internet sometimes. Like he’s one of them bots that’s got that algorithm built into their software that predicts your likes and dislikes. Like when you barely think about fancying a bite and then you go on Facebook and suddenly all the ads are showing stacks of crumpets.

(Now I want a crumpet.)

You claim to have known John for years – have you ever checked for robot parts? There’s probably wires under those ginger curls, I’m telling ya.

What does your beloved classical literature say on the topic? Talk to yer bards and get back to me, Vaughan.

Regards,

Paul

P.S. Pretty sure John’s middle name isn’t “BLOODY” but “Winston”.

.

**From: **johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**Subject:** I should get Mimi to stitch “crazy cat lady in skinny jeans” on me pillows

(Or better yet, learn embroidery so I can do it myself like a real man.)

Macca,

First things first – what sort of buggerin fuckery *is* your personal email address? Are you trying to tell me that I’ve been talking to a fake Paul McCartney this entire time? Because that might make things awkward on Sunday.

Yes, that’s right. Mr. Harrison aka the Sam Eagle Muppet man himself personally texted me (!) today and invited me to your flat-warming party. Apparently it doubles as his birthday party? The text also said to bring our own booze, slippers, and “flower seeds of our choice”. (I have so many questions.) Also, I can’t believe you didn’t invite me yourself.

More importantly, I can’t believe we’re finally going to get to spend some quality time together. I feel like you might not even recognise me without my green apron. (Should I wear it?) Or I you without a counter between us. (Should I bring it?) We might even need to email each other while being in the same room to be able to talk since we haven’t really properly communicated in any other way (like the true Millennials we both are).

And *of course* I made up stories about you when I “people-watched” you, are you daft?! You were the most interesting person in my shop that day. Come to think of it, you are the most interesting person that’s ever come into my shop, period. In fact, I burned myself with the milk steamer when you walked in. I had to tell Ringo the perfectly round burn on my forearm was a conscious fashion choice.

It was not, Paul. And it hurt like tits.

Speaking of stories, if you’re planning on becoming Liverpool’s own vigilante, is there any way I can be your sidekick? I promise I’m a great sidekick material. I’ll do me best to regularly get myself into trouble so that you’ll always have someone to save. And I’ll always have extra guitar strings in me pocket. We’ll take the city by storm. They will hear our harmonies of righteousness as we approach, our hands on our hips, our capes flapping in the wind (mine lime green, yours fluorescent blue).

And when it’s time for me to become a hero in my own right, we’ll have a tearful goodbye scene on top of St. John’s Beacon.

Now Paul, don’t think I’ve missed the way ye talk about Magic Alex. (Is that a green-eyed monster I spy?) He’s a fun bloke but I assure you he’s not as fun as you. He definitely wouldn’t be able to come up with as many name jokes for you as you have for him, that’s for certain. (And he won’t, because I haven’t talked to him about you nor will I do. Some things are sacred.)

Still, I dig his company. He’s a very weird person and I am attracted to weird and unique people. He’s also very into me which is nice for me fragile ego. (Fragile egos need to be stroked regularly or they wither and die.) And though we might have some fun together and collab on a few songs, I don’t think it’s going to turn into a thing. So, of course I still want to help you out with *your* songs. They’re more my kind of style anyway.

It’s a drag that you have to go somewhere just after we finally spend some HD time together, though! Then again, you deserve to gorge yourself on nature after all that turmoil with uni and your Moon-cident, so I’m going to try and not take it too personally.

That said, I fully expect you to email me from the wilderness. I don’t care if you want to wipe your arse down with some heather or whatever, you better find wifi up there and keep me supplied with entertaining tales of your adventures until you come back.

I will see you Sunday at the party!

From the mind of a genius,

John

P.S. I know you no longer want our coffee, but what would you say to a nice cup of iced green tea?

.

**From:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** There are 7 Levels

Johnny oh Johnny Johnny-O

dear dear John m’darlin

Guess. What.

I have drank too much of that good pink stuff thing Jane brought to our party and now I can’t fall asleep because this bed is all weird and new and I low-key miss Michael snorin through the wall.

Of course Martha’s m’dear’s here, but she doesna really snore so she’s not tha helpful. She doesna wanna cuddle either tonight, so my arms feel empty except for the music.

Music’s goooooood. Do you also hear music in yer head when you’re really reeeeally drunkk?? Or asleep? Or always? It’s so loud sometimes, Johnny, it’s like I can smell teh pinao keys with my eyes. Eye-keys smells.

I’m so glad you came tonight. It was nice hanging out in person wassanit? I want to hang out always.

You’ve got nice hands y’know.

And you smell good also. Like coffee. And you also sing good. Really good. We sound quite good together don’t we? People thought we sounded brilliant and we didna even rehearse! It was like magic, Johnny! Everly Brothers eat yer hearts out. (But not really because yer amazing Phil and Don and eatin yer hearts out is probably not good for yer cholesterol. Or, like, being alive. I’m also thinking it might not be vegan??? We just don’t know.)

We should’ve been in a band together Johnny. Why were/are we not in a band together, John Lenin???

We could’ve made it B I G. Money, Johnny. Possessions, Johnny. Swimming pools and alpacas and a giant orchestra that would accompany us everywhere we go and play the soundtrack of our lives.

Bloody Ivan Vaughan didn’t do his one job innit. Such a waste.

By the ways, did you know you had freckless??? Have you ever shared that information with me? They are very subtel and I could only see them properly from really really up close, but they’re there!

Your face INTERESTS me, Johnny my good Friend.

Oh.

I think I just took a micro-nap but I’m back. Someone left water on me bedside table during those twenty minutes though. Martha doesna have opposable thumbs so I guessed it was Geo. Such a considerate flatmate innihe. He could’ve taken the laptop off of my face, tho, not gonna lie.

Anyroads… continuing:

To address somee of the questions you asked in this week’s email (I realise I meself have been a bad friend and haven’t responded promptly enough like me manners taught me. Maybe you should find a new email pal Johnny. Go on without me and me slow music fingers because we’re not worhty.).

My email address says “the real Paul” because when I was in grammsr school someone spread a rumour about me that I had died. I canna rememeber if I was supposed to be a ghost or an evil doppelgänger of meself or a zombie when I showed up to classes anyroad, but the rumour stayed with mew until me A Levels. I couldna even get birds to go out with meh for a while because they were scared I’d eart their brains.

Though I sorta wished I was dead when I was doin them exams, am I RIGHT.

I didnna invite you to our party meself because I didna want to appear too eager. I like you, Johnny Johnny, but you’re way too cool for me. Everybody likes you! Even Martha! Even Geo’s warming up to yer since you brought him a SUNFLOWER SEED. He said he’s gonna call it Winston once it sprouts! He even raised his eyebrows a teeny teeny bit and then smiled!

Imma call you the sunflower man from now on Johnny because you made Geo smile.

And OF COURSE imma email yer when I’m up in Scotland rolling around in heather and splashing around naked in bubbling brooks! In fact I don’t think I could make it without our chats for an entire week. Though me uncle tells me none of his sheep have names and that’s just prepostreious.

Prepostaros.

PREPOSTEROUS, fuckit.

Everyone needs a name, innit! Maybe giving a name to a face is what will get thru everyones skulls that animals are people too. My skull already knows Johnny. Does yours??L?

I think I will name one of meuncle's sheeps after you. But not Winston cos that’s already taken.

Also I think I wrote a song during my nap:

It goes like this: Nana-naaaa ananana nanana na naaaa. I can’t get the tune out me head. Is It something?? Do you recognise it? Because I think it might be that one song abut rainbows from the muppet film but I’m not exactly sure. Can’t think.

Me eyelids are saying office hours are over.

Good night Johnny the Sunflower man!

Paul

p.S. I haven’t the foggiest what you mean by a green-eyed monster sunless yer talking about me. In fact, I hope you’ll have fun with Matching Anklet!

p.S.S. I’d sayy, “iced green tea, yer not being too helpful because you still contain 24-45 milligrams of caffeine per cup”

.

**From:** ivaughan@ucl.ac.uk  
**To:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**Subject:** And your middle name is homosexual repression, so?

Y’Alright Paul!

I wish I had time to indulge you in a discussion about your sexuality, but I have this assignment that’s making my brain implode in Seneca currently demanding my full attention, so I can’t.

…y’know, actually, no, I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I don’t indulge you in your own ridiculousness and wrongness.

Remind me – how long have we known each other, Paul? And don’t forget – we are birthday twins so you can run but you can’t hide from me. It’s that weird gemini connection we have. I can see into your brain. It’s pink, squishy, and full of nasty secrets.

So here goes:

Firstly, who even says “un-gay”? You know the word is “straight”, right? You know who’d use a weirdass term like that? People who aren’t straight.

And of course you flirt with blokes! Are you daft?! You’d flirt with a teakettle if it had an arse and a pulse. Hell, if that teakettle had nice hands, you’d probably propose to it with your mum’s ring (you always had a thing about hands you spectacular weirdo).

Why is John pissed off with you? Did you do that thing you always do when you have one of your ridiculous man-crushes? When it spooks you so hard you overcompensate heavily by talking about shagging birds at every waking hour of every day?

Seriously, Paul. I would be more frustrated with you if you were being intentionally obtuse, but I know you. I’m not surprised you never realised this shite before. You hate being introspective. You’re like a bloody lighthouse – shining all this light on miles and miles of the ocean around you, but shrouded in darkness on the inside.

John is obviously besotted with you. And you obviously fancy the bleeding hell out of him. I can see it. Hazza can see it. Ringo can see it. Hell, Martha can probably see it too and she’s a dog with a shitload of fur over her eyes.

And before you ask, no, John hasn’t told me anything, but I talked to Geo today. Since the grump was a bit upset that I couldn’t make it to your little soirée, I rang him (he wasn’t too excited – apparently I am the last Millennial on this earth who still enjoys having a chat over the phone) to wish him many happy returns and he very uncharacteristically spilled the tea on you and John.

Mate. If I wasn’t dead-set on maintaining my persona of a Bitter Northerner in London (trademark pending), I would actually let out an “aww” in your honour.

Apparently, you two barely talked to anybody else at the party and were glued to each other’s side in such a scandalous manner that people started to wonder whether you were conjoined twins or some freak scientific experiment.

He also said that you sang? Geo said it was one of your originals and you and John did some elaborate harmony thing without ever rehearsing.

You must realise that that’s not a regular thing, right?

He even told me that at one point he looked over to where you and John were stood by the kitchen counter and you two weren’t even bleedin talking. You were just staring at each other as if you were having an entire conversation with just your eyes.

Again, you realise that’s not normal, yeah? Regular humans don’t do that. This is some high-level soulmate shite.

He even told me that John was really cute with Martha during the time he wasn’t with you (which must have been nano-seconds according to witnesses). At one point, apparently, Hazza found him in your room showing Martha pictures of his cats on his phone while giving her gentle pats. He said that when he turned around to back the hell out, he almost walked into you because you were stood in the doorway right behind him, staring at John as if he were those veggie balls from IKEA.

One more time, Macca: You have a giant crush on the crazy lad. In fact, I would be surprised if you weren’t half-way in love with him already.

I hope you’ll invite me to the wedding.

And how dare you imply that I didn’t try hard enough to introduce you to each other?!Honestly, my theory is that you subconsciously knew you’d fall in love even back in bloody 2011 and so both of you repressed wankers avoided it. There’s no other way to explain this freakish phenomenon.

I mean, John is a lifelong disaster so I don’t expect much from him when it comes to being a functioning human, but you certainly disappointed!

As the classic says (Daniel Radcliffe, not Cicero), I tried, and therefore, no one should criticize me.

You’re on your own now, lad.

Si vales, valeo,

Ivan

.

**From: **johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**Subject:** You drunkenly misspelled my name as Lenin…

(…but then managed to write doppelgänger correctly? Who are you?

Or was “Lenin” just a really unfortunate Freudian slip on your part? Is this your subtle way of telling me you’re a communist, Macca? I had no idea this discourse was even available to us. This opens up so many options for jokes now that the Moon discourse is off the table.)

Paul

(or should that be comrade McCartney?,

I know I probably shouldn’t laugh. Communism jokes aren’t funny. Unless everyone gets them.)

I have to thank you for that marvelously written email. Honestly, I’m actually considering framing it and hanging it in me room. I’ve received (and sent) drunken texts and even the occasional drunken call before, but never have I ever received a drunken email of this length and emotional depth. That’s a first. And boy oh boy was I not disappointed!

Actually, you know what, fuck my room, they should hang it up at the Tate.

Had I known you get so hysterical after having a bit of alcohol, I would have spiked your Monkberry Moon Delights ages ago! (With your consent, of course.) Also is this how you behave every time you get plastered or was it that pink shite your readhead friend brought? What was in it for chrissakes – LSD?

More importantly, what are the seven levels you reference in your subject? Seven levels of what? Why seven? What’s on each level? Am I on any level? Which level is the worst level? Are we talking upward scale or downward scale? Are there spiders on any of the levels? And cats? I need answers, Macca!

You can’t go all prophetic on me and then not deliver! I’m into these things y’see. I take them seriously. I went through a phase couple years ago when I wouldn’t even leave the house unless the planets were in the right position. Hell, I once even blew off my therapy because Mercury was in retrograde. Of course my therapist told me Mercury in retrograde is just a fancy name for executive function disorder which took all the fun from it. (Then again, my therapist is a giant party-pooper most weeks. The other day she said that watching shadows on the wall for an entire day doesn’t count as self-care.)

Furthermore, I see we’re back to the sheep theme. Is you wanting to name a sheep after me a subtle dig at me hair, AGAIN? Just cause you’re basically Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid it doesn’t mean you can make fun of us lowly flesh-and-bone earthlings, you know!

And yes, I know I have freckles, I’ve seen me face before. You should have seen me mum – her face was like one big freckle with how freckle-y it was. She was stunning, though. She used to wear this big floppy hat because her skin was so sensitive to the sun it burned in seconds. I have so many memories of that hat. Sometimes she’d let me wear it and I’d dance around the front garden like a ballerina with the sound of her laughter in me ears. (I like to think she suspected I was queer even then. I wasn’t out yet when she died – not even to meself – but she supported all the crossdressing and dancing and poetry writing when I was still too young to impose societal norms on meself.)

I think she was the reason I stuck with poetry even during that rough patch when I wasn’t ok with who I was. It’s good that writing is such a private affair. You can really bare your soul to a piece of paper (or even an email, right?).

It’s funny, because you actually remind me of me mother quite a lot. Not in a kinky way (you can take your finger off the Dr Freud speed-dial) but in a human nature kind of way. You’re both very empathetic people but then some things go completely over your heads. It’s a curious combination. And again, it’s really funny, because I feel like I’m the complete opposite of that (even though people [read: Mimi] keep saying I’m so much like Julia). I’ve been accused of being insensitive many a time but I am also a giant paranoiac who over-analyses everything twice-over until it turns into a complete chaos in my head that makes me spin out.

I also gather it’s high time to address the elephant in the room. (Or should that be alpaca in the garden? Sheep in the heather? Unicorn in the sex dungeon? I’ve lost count of our animal metaphors.)

Let me start by saying that I wasn’t going to bring this up. I was going to be good.

Ever since I came back from Hamburg I’ve been doing me best to push it down and to stay behind the line, so to speak (and no, this has nothing to do with shagging Magic Alex, you can put the word-play away already), but it’s like every time I make meself take a step back, you take two steps forward. It’s like a fookin tango. And it needs to be addressed, because I ain’t got my dancing shoes on, partner!

Last night at the party, standing in your kitchen barefoot (because I thought the slippers were a joke) with a hole in my sock, talking to you about The Everlys and Buddy and Elvis and trumpets and pianos and the coffee industry (?), staring into your eyes (which sounds really fruity, but mainly I was stuck on the realisation that you were the exact same height as me even though you always somehow seem bigger from behind the coffee shop counter) … that was the most myself I’ve felt in a long time.

Not that I’m not myself other times, but when I’m with you, I can just *be* y’see. It’s like everything else fades away for a while. Like I can breathe some fresh fookin air after living in a nuclear shelter for several months.

It sounds daft, I know, but I even felt at home in your room. I felt natural and right petting your dog. And don’t get me started on the singing. THAT was actually spooky. That was, indeed, magic. Like when you hear one of those Tibetan monk choirs and you get goosebumps all over your body.

We were like those monks, Macca. Only with some really lush hair.

I know you felt it too, because why else would you be leaning so close towards me your eyelashes were basically combing out me fringe? Seriously, you were so close I could see the tiny scar on your lip, the droplets of sweat on your forehead clumping your hair together, the speckles of brown in the green of your eyes. The gentle curve of your nose.

I mean, I appreciated the close-ups since I didn’t bring me specs, but I’m only human, y’see. I can only take so many extreme lean-ins before I go completely barmy in the head (and other areas). It’s not fair.

Calling me Johnny is not fair.

Talking about shagging some girls all the time is not fair.

Making me imagine you as an adorable wood nymph frolicking around in some Scottish brook is not fair.

Writing songs about me fookin face is. Not. Fair.

Making me crush on you like a crazy person after I’ve fought so hard to suppress those feelings and keep them in my poems where they won’t hurt anyone (including me) is not fair.

You’re driving me round the bend. Possibly on your friend’s life-threatening Vespa. And even though I too think the Moon is a sexy lady, I don’t fancy having me teeth knocked out.

I reckon what I’m trying to say is… I like you, Paul. Not just as a friend, not just as a penpal, not even just as a valued Starbucks customer… but in a romantic way. Like Harry and Sally. Like Lizzie and Mr. Darcy. Bert and Ernie.

Is. That. Clear?

No more of that email pal nonsense, Macca. No other email does to me whatever your emails do to my pulse when I see your address (except maybe an email from the HMRC).

This message will self destruct in 10 seconds,

John

P.S. Can you possibly stop being adorable with your offensively nonchalant knowledge of caffeine content.

.

**From:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**To:** ivaughan@ucl.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Oh

Oh *fuck*.

I hate it when you’re right, Vaughan.

What the fuck do I do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the wee hiatus I took. I hope it didn’t disturb the flow too much. I was busy with an academic conference and also had a bit of a mental breakdown (if I can't get myself to therapy, I will at least get John to therapy, ohoho), so this fic has been a bit low on my list of priorities, recently. THAT SAID, I put my heart and soul into this chapter, so I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> [Here](https://slippingintostockings.tumblr.com/post/190919452444/you-might-well-arsk-ch-8fandom-the-beatles-jp)'s a link to its tumblr post. Like or reblog if the spirit moves you :).


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Paul experiences some wildlife and John receives some exciting news.

**From:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject: **Please type quietly, my head is still pounding

Well howdy there partner,

Before you ask – no, I didn’t run away to Gun Barrel City, TX to become a cowboy. (They wouldn’t let me in anyway, since I don’t eat meat, drive a mini, and touching guns makes me queasy.) I just wanted to inject this email with a nice fat dose of chill from the get-go to let you know that everything is a-ok.

Just

hunky

dory.

Literally, IF I COULD light a joint for this email and insert it into its tiny electronic mouth, that’s what I’d do.

Anyway, as I’m emailing you from my phone from my aunty and uncle’s farm in Scotland (as previously established), I couldn’t be farther from being a cowboy. Unless sheep are cows. And thistles are bluebonnets. And the muddy overalls and wellies I’m wearing are actually a suede tassel jacket and western boots.

And it’s cold as bollocks in here. (And cor fuckin blimey now I want a suede tassel jacket.)

John, I’m really sorry I didn’t reach out to you before I left for this trip. I know you probably expected me to. And while I realise that there was a limited window of opportunity to talk to you in person, I was too fuckin’ embarrassed to leave me own bedroom let alone make it to a Starbucks and talk to a human being. Let alone talk to a human being who was you.

I was scared, alright? My heart was in my arse.

If there indeed *are* seven levels, then they’re either seven levels of bad hangover or seven levels of embarrassment and that drunk email I sent you was definitely at least level seven IF NOT more (but I guess the scale doesn’t go higher, or maybe, as would Lindsay Lohan say, the limit does not exist).

Martha was the one who finally forced me out of hiding and then made me throw a ball in the park for two straight hours as if she wanted to exact punishment. (I almost threw *up* after half an hour.) I swear it’s like me da has been secretly mind-controlling her ever since I moved out.

Furthermore, you’ll be glad to know that the pink drink did not contain any LSD or anything else untoward. Apparently it was a cheap Tesco’s rosé and I’m just a really sloppy drunk. Therefore, I can’t even blame Ms Jane Asher for this classic McCartney shenanigan. Not that I’d ever blame her. The bird’s perfect. Tens across the board.

I can imagine you rolling yer eyes right now… and you’re not wrong, because yes, we dated once upon a time (but as our dear mutual friend Ivan Vaughan would say – who *haven’t* I dated). Jane and I didn’t really work as a couple, though. And I was emotionally way closer to her mum, which made things kinda weird. (She’s a great lady. We still talk sometimes. Who’s reaching for Dr Freud’s number now, am I right.)

Just–– urgh, I’m so sorry, Johnny. What can I say, I’m a bloody coward. Even this very email is cowardly as I’m once again awkwardly dancing around the subject like a deer at a laser show. (Or Brian in a club.)

It’s not that I didn’t want to have this incredibly important chat with you.

It’s that I much prefer running from my issues. Obviously.

I am pretty darn good at running from my issues. I could run from my issues for England. I’m sure that (drag)Queen Elizabeth II would be super proud of me right now.

Long story short, this job in Scotland couldn’t come at a better time, because believe me when I tell you I have never been so bamboozled in my life. If the past two months of back-and-forth email banter and the truly iconic time we had at the party hadn’t been enough to make me question some pretty fundamental crap about myself, Ivan pretty much drove the point home the other day. The lad can be pointier than George’s elbows. I guess it’s all that Greek and Latin crap he’s reading. Lots of blokes in funny helmets stabbing each other in the back.

And yes, I can see the homoerotic subtext.

In other words, you’re going to have to be patient with me now and give me this time in the magical Scottish landscape to figure it all out. And I *am* going to figure it all out. Mostly because there’s really not that much else to do here considering I am completely on me bloody own. That is, if you don’t count my dear Martha, give or take a few dozen sheep, couple cats, one very tired hinny, and a flock of chickens who look at me like I’m a serial killer whenever I enter the henhouse to collect the eggs (which isn’t fair because I don’t even eat eggs).

As you’ve probably learned about me by now, I have trouble opening up to people. What you might *not* know, however, is that I don’t even open up to *myself*. I have no idea what’s going on in me head. Since there’s no one here, I keep trying to talk it out loud to figure things out… but it’s not been working. (The only thing it’s achieved is that the sheep now look at me funny as well as the chickens. Well, that, and I got a sore throat.)

Luckily I brought me guitar with me. Music is something you can always rely on whenever you’re feeling like you can’t express yourself through any other means, innit. As soon as I finally sat down at the cottage the other night, flames slowly licking the logs in the fireplace, good Scottish whiskey slowly coursing through my veins, and begun strumming, it suddenly started pouring out of me. It was like a faucet. I could barely keep up with my own muse as I struggled to write everything down. The chord progressions. The heartfelt (albeit crotchety) lyrics. The bass lines already thumpa-thumping in my head like a bubbling stream, complementing the melodies…

…now, don’t get me wrong. Those songs aren’t perfect by any means. They’re unfinished and need more work. Hell, they’re probably crap. Like, some of them are straight up just tunes about how cool animals are. But they’re 100% me. Raw unadulterated McCartney.

To be honest, working on them has made me feel like I’ve attended several back-to-back therapy sessions.

Just so you can roughly imagine what all these songs are about (besides animals), one of the first songs I wrote up here is called “Monkberry Moon Delight” and it mostly involves me screaming seemingly nonsensical lyrics at the top of my voice. I say *seemingly*, but it should be *fully*, really. It’s like the words were written by my id. You’re an English genius, though, so maybe you’ll be able to sort through them and then tell me the meaning of the song.

The next song I want to tell you about actually requires me to reference my drunken email, which is something I can’t really do without blushing all over (and really hard, you can probably see me from Liverpool).

Do you remember that whole “nana-naaaa” business by the end of it? Well, miraculously that buggerin tune was *still* in me head when I woke up the next morning and ever since then I haven’t been able to shake it off. (The only time I can push it out of my mind is when I’m composing a different song.) I tried Shazaming it, but nothing came up, so I’m currently operating on the notion that it is in fact an original McCartney song that I “composed” during a drunken nap. It’s evolved quite a bit since its “nana-naaaa” origins, but it hasn’t got any lyrics yet.

I’ve temporarily titled it “Scrambled Eggs”. Mostly in honour of my Scottish chicken friends, but also because eggs rhyme with legs and I quite fancy thinking about legs, but that’s about as far as I got with it. I will keep you posted about how things develop.

I’m also working on a tune currently titled “Ram On” (more of an instrumental piece with a very gentle melody), which is slightly ironic because there isn’t a ram on this farm.

(Do you think the sheep might think *I’m* a ram since they’re all ladies?)

Anyroad. I’ve got to pull on my wellies and go back to work. Mucking waits for no man. Or even-toed ungulate.

Over the river and through the woods,

Yours,

Paul

P.S. Check your (actual) post.

~Sent from a hole in the ground.~

.

**From: **johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**Subject:** Who the fuck is Billy Budapest?

(And why does *he* get yer pajamas?)

Paul,

You realise that people who say “hunky-dory” unironically are rarely doing ok, yeah? Plus, the way you spelled that makes you sound like you’re in a hostage situation. Blink twice if you’re being mistreated, Macca! (That said, I wonder who this Dory bird is and why is she hunky. I bet she’s a weightlifter. I think I’m low-key in love.)

Now, first of all – wow, you really are a country boy!

Are you saying someone left you in charge of “a few dozen sheep”? How do you keep track of that many fluff-balls when you can barely keep track of yer brain? Is Martha helping? I bet she makes a fantastic herding dog. She must love the countryside. (I actually find myself missing her ever since we bonded at your party – don’t tell my cats, though.)

I’m not as good with nature and animals as you seem to be. I’m pretty useless, actually. Me and Cyn once went camping and believe me when I tell you that it did not go down well. Since neither of us can really cook (or know how to make a fire for that matter), we nearly starved (and froze) to death, Cyn got so annoyed with my constant plucking at the strings that she threw my guitar in the lake (rude, right?), and we found a nest of newborn field mice right next to our tent (Cyn thought they were adorable while I secretly found them terrifying with their beady eyes and ridiculous little hands) or what *would be* our tent if either of us knew how to build a tent without it falling down on us in the middle of the night.

I *will* tell you that I am quite the Dr Doolittle when it comes to urban wildlife, though. What I mean by this is that I’m very good mates with Liverpool’s pigeon colony.

I honestly don’t know how the whole thing came about, but Scouser pigeons can’t get enough of me. They flock to me whenever they see me in the park and I’ve no idea why.

Do I look like Brenda Fricker from Home Alone 2?  
Do they know I work with food?  
Can they smell those Starbucks macadamia nut cookies on me?  
Do pigeons even have noses?  
Should I just embrace my fate and become the ultimate Liverpool pigeon master?

So many existential questions.

(I wonder if the title of the Ultimate Liverpool Pigeon Master comes with a bunch of gym badges, like when you need to qualify for the Pokémon League. You know I can’t resist a good pin.)

Thank you so much for sending me a package! I have to admit I went straight to the post office the next day after I received your email and basically panted like a dog while I waited for the clerk to bring it out. I couldn’t believe when I opened it (right then and there because I have zero impulse-control, apparently) and out tumbled your (or should I say ours?) notebook! Fuck, I haven’t seen it for so long I almost forgot what the bloody thing looks like. But as soon as my eyeballs fell on it, I got this lovely flashback of the first time I saw it at the coffee shop. I still snicker to myself when I remember you sitting there, writing, so deep in thought that you didn’t realise yer tongue was poking out of yer mouth…

You know, cliché quotes aren’t really my style (and if you ever show this to anyone, I will deny my authorship and burn yer little country cottage to the ground), but I am really glad that of all the coffee joints in all the towns in all the world, you walked into mine. Even if you’ve been responding to me advances by getting into road accidents and running away to the wilderness… which I’m trying not to take personally.

Now, I’ve gone trough the whole notebook in search of your new songs and… ok, let’s talk about “Monkberry Moon Delight”, which is a song that both turns me on and terrifies me to the core of my being (which is, admittedly, my favourite combination of emotions). Paul, darlin, I’m chuffed that you consider me the Macca whisperer, but I’m afraid that those lyrics couldn’t be deciphered even by Champollion.

That said, I approve of all the mentions of sucking and bananas. It strikes me as a very horny song. Possibly an effect of your social isolation up there in the mountains?

I feel like your id and my id would really hit it off, by the way.

I can’t wait to hear the music that comes with these lyrics. Did you say you’re planning on screaming the lyrics over the melody? Interesting choice. Makes me think of a poem I wrote couple years ago for a slam poetry event. It was about my parents and it involved me screaming at the audience as if *they* were Alfie and Julia. Everyone in that room was deeply uncomfortable (and quite possibly terrified) except for me, because I felt nothing but incredible relief and a sense of peace and calm.

Mind you, this was before I started proper therapy and discovered that there were healthier ways of coping with one’s childhood trauma than scream-singing “Mothaaaaaaaa” at a group of half dozen high/drunk uni students. Who would’ve thunk it.

I find it kind of fascinating how our lives parallel each other. Even in such seemingly unimportant matters like writing a scream-song that helps us deal with our crap. It’s uncanny, mate.

As for “Scrambled Eggs”, maybe you should just go ahead and rename it “Scrambled Legs”. You don’t want those chickens to go after you in the dead of the night when they cotton onto the fact that you want to scramble their children, innit? (The legs, on the other hand (hehe), can take it. I know mine could. They chunky.)

And yes Macca, believe me, I know you find it difficult to open up to people. You’re forgetting I’ve spent the past two months and a half prying you open like a bloody pearl mussel. But I get it… this stuff isn’t easy.

I actually feel kinda crap for giving you what can only be described as an ultimatum in that last email. But I couldn’t help meself at the time. The words just flew out of my mouth (my fingers? my keyboard?). I woke up the morning after the party and it was like there was a helium balloon in my chest that threatened to lift me off my feet and carry me away towards mysterious foreign lands (or at least to Blackpool). I haven’t felt this way since Johnny and the Moondogs played their very first gig. (The gig itself was completely atrocious but the feeling of playing a guitar on stage was better than owning a basket of fresh kittens.)

SPEAKING OF.

One Mr. Ivan Vaughan – our resident Classics nerd, currently of Londinium – was actually present at that gig and HOW did I not know that the two of you knew each other again? More importantly, how long have you known him? Has he been secretly giving you intel on me? I hope he’s told you some juicy stories about me! Tales of my rowdy youth and many romantic conquests!

Anyroad, I am sending you yer notebook back (thank you for including a return address, because otherwise I would’ve just written “Macca / Scotland / The End of the World” on the envelope). I am not much for songwriting (in fact, it scares me shitless, but lately I’ve been feeling inspired), but this one’s for you. When you leaf through the notebook on a cold night all alone in the Scottish Highlands, I hope it can warm you up.

Yours till the sheep bleats,

John

P.S. Is your device signature a reference to The Hobbit? Because if so, we may need to get married immediately whether you want to or not. Just accept it. I don’t make the rules.

.

**From:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Actually, Ivan told me you were a wee nerd

(He also told me that you fell off the stage one time when you saw your crush in the audience. Doesn’t really go with the words “romantic conquests”, does it. Unless they ended up performing mouth-to-mouth on you.)

Dear John,

How do I keep track of the fluff-balls, you ask? I’ve kept track of you for nearly three months, haven’t I? (Baa-dum-tsk.)

No, but seriously, though. My uncle and aunty’s got them all numbered so it isn’t that difficult to make sure none of them are missing. Truth be told, it makes me feel a bit sad that they haven’t got actual names, so I’ve decided to name them after people I know. So far I called #1 Paul – because duh – and then I called #69 Brian, mostly because he would absolutely hate that.

Have *you* got a preference for a number, then? One of the sheep should definitely bear yer name. I also get a kick out of all the gender-bending potential. (Again, they’re all ladies.)

Martha is a terrible herding dog, by the way. She’s a city girl, as you know, having grown up in Liverpool, so even though her herding instincts seem to be kicking in, she has no idea what to do with them. Her favourite pastime of the moment is to barrel into the herd full-speed like a hairy cannonball and then stay there amongst them for hours and hours until she gets hungry. It’s impossible to distinguish her from the sheep, so I leave her be, even though I miss her during the day.

As for the chickens, they haven’t beaked me to death yet if that’s what you’re worried about. I have taken to humming “Scrambled Eggs” (without the lyrics, obviously, as I don’t have a death wish) every time I enter the henhouse and it seems to soothe them.

This is the real power of music, Johnny.

I’ve also been riding the hinny a little. His name is Cornelius Fudge and his hobbies are hee-hawing extremely loud (sometimes it sounds like he’s yodeling) and also farting while he walks. As you can imagine, riding Cornelius across the land is… memorable.

And well, Tolkien probably wouldn’t be my first choice if I was to save one book from a burning house, but I do love The Hobbit. It makes a great device signature anyway, though I’d prefer something from Dickens. Have I ever told you that Charles Dickens is actually my favourite author? I realise it’s weird for a 22 year old living in the 21st century to be obsessed with Bleak House or Nicholas Nickleby, but Nicholas Nickleby truly changed my attitude to life when I first read it in grammar school, believe it or not.

I love that literature can have that power. I hope to be able to do that one day with my music. To have at least an ounce of that impact. For now… I have the chickens at least.

Curious that you brought up pins! You’ll be glad to know I brought my Elvis pin with me on this adventure. Granted, there aren’t many opportunities to wear snazzy outfits up here, but I did pin it to my coat lapel when I drove to the post office the other day to pick up your package. The clerk actually noticed it and complimented me on it and we chatted a bit about rock’n’roll and 50s music.

She asked me if the package was from my girlfriend. I guess I was blushing a little when I signed for it, with your full name swimming in my field of vision and all. She thought it was some kind of care package.

Anyroad, I told her that I didn’t have a girlfriend but that the package indeed came from someone special. And I guess it *is* a care package in its own special way.

Obviously, I leafed through the notebook as soon as I got home (and said hello and gave a cuddle to Cornelius because he’s needy that way) and… all I can say is… well, I can’t really say it, that’s the point. You have me completely stumped.

I mean, first of all, you’re not allowed to ever again claim that you can’t write songs. When I was reading “And Your Bird Can Sing” I swear to God I could actually hear the music in my head. And it wasn’t just “nana-naaaa” either. I could hear the whole bloody thing. The guitar riffs, the hand-claps, the vocals, the harmonies, even a bloody tambourine.

Are you a wizard, John Lennon? Why is it that your words possess so much more magic than mine?

That said, some of those dummy lyrics (“when your bike is broken, will it bring you down?”) really need to be ironed out. Mostly because they give me anxiety. What do you mean my bike is going to break?! Haven’t I gone through enough hardship this year? I hope you’d lend me your muppet bike with streamers if that ever happens, though. You did promise to “be around”, after all.

Seriously, though. This song… means a lot to me. I can see that you’re reaching out, John. I know you’re there for me. You talk about helium balloons, but for me it’s more like this warmth that’s spreading throughout my body, y’know. Like when you drink a really nice cuppa after you come home from work. It’s everything.

Makes me want to pack it all up in here and come home early, to be honest. But alas, the chickens won’t let me.

Instead, I’ve written more songs. It’s always good to take out your frustrations on musical instruments (by *playing* them and NOT throwing guitars in lakes, obviously, what was Cyn even thinking?!). First there’s a little tune called “Heart of the Country” which is basically me fancying myself a British cowboy (sheepboy?) and doing something I want to call *soft country*. I’d appreciate some lyrics input from you here, because the sheep/sleep rhyme is a bit on the nose. I do insist on sheep being somehow included in the song, though. Do yer magic, Lennon!

The second song I’m adding into the notebook… well. Let’s say I’m getting there, John. Like I said, I want to come home as soon as I can so we can sort this whole business out, helium balloons, cups of tea… and all that. I wrote this song with a two-part harmony in mind and I’m hoping that you’ll sing it with me.

So yeah. Again, I’m getting there. All you have to do is “Wait” a tiny bit longer.

Affectionately,

Paul

P.S. Obviously, Billy Budapest gets my pajamas, because I can’t get the gist of your letter – can’t you read?!

P.P.S. Catch up!

~Sent from a hole in the ground.~

.

**From: **johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**Subject:** Hold onto your baguettes and croissants

Paul,

First off – I haven’t read yer last email yet, though the package has arrived and is currently laying on me bed waiting to be unwrapped. I will read both soon and send you a proper response, but first:

Remember that poetry competition I entered about a month ago? Well I thought I was for sure going to “sashay away”, but apparently one of my poems made it to the top five!

I mean???

It does not compute.

It’s not like I think my work’s worth shite, but I definitely didn’t think I’d win anything.

More importantly, I never thought that the most sentimental poem I ever wrote in me life could be so successful! I reckon the judges were a bit soft-hearted. Or soft-headed. Just daft.

Anyroad, that’s not even the most gobsmacking thing about this. According to the official email I just received, the award ceremony will be just one of the events taking place at this giant poetry event called “Paris Poétique 2020”. To which I am invited along with the other four contenders from all over the world.

In other words, I AM GOING TO PARIS, MACCA!

Can you quite believe this shit?

I am off to pack a baret in every colour of the rainbow.

Au revoir,

John

P.S. How does a bloke stop his heart from thumping out the beat of La Marseillaise?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, remember me? I would apologize for yet another long hiatus, but I think we're beyond that at this point. Life's not been a romp in a heather lately, but I am completely in love and obsessed with this modern AU John and Paul and so I am determined to finish this fic and do them justice. They're good lads. I hope all of you are taking care and keeping yourselves safe (i.e. staying home) and that this chapter made you smile a little amidst all this quarantine shite.
> 
> In case you didn't get that "when your bike is broken" reference, it comes from "And Your Bird Can Sing – Take 2" (also known as the best Beatles outtake ever). Paul's gushing about Dickens was then inspired by his recent podcast interview with Alan Alda. I heartily recommend that you check out both. As usual, [here's](https://slippingintostockings.tumblr.com/post/613239089346576384/you-might-well-arsk-ch-9fandom-the-beatles-jp) the link to this chapter's tumblr post. Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John goes to Paris, everyone chimes in, Ivan continues to be the real MVP, and the story ends.

**From: **johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**Subject: **Ivan’s profile pic on Instagram is a portrait of Ovid

(So who’s actually the nerd?)

Paul,

Eef you cahn't tell by my ahdahrahble ahccent, I'm wreeting ziss email ahll ze way frahm sweet sweet Pahrees.

And let me tell you, if my brief brush with Hamburg was a passionate one-night affair, this city has me on my knees with a bloody ring in hand. Because I am_in_love with it.

I can’t stress enough how bloody beautiful this place is. Don’t get me wrong, I adore Liddypool with all of its fauna and flora (and by fauna and flora I mean them teens getting blotto every Friday night on the docks and puking all over the road), but this city is in a category of its own.

I’m hoping that the class of Paris will rub off on me – that I will become Paris!John.

“And who, pray tell, is Paris!John?”, you might well arsk. Paris!John swirls his wine glass before taking a sip. Paris!John knows the difference between cheddar and eidam (other than “one is yellower”). Paris!John flies priority and always secures the isle seat. Paris!John’s lips are never chapped because he doesn’t constantly forget his chapstick in different coats. Paris!John is smooth as fuck and has a baguette in every pocket.

Everybody loves Paris!John.

They put me into the most ridiculous hotel (Hôtel de Nesle, do yourself a favour and google it in between your shepherdin) and I’m enjoying every single second of it, especially the two owners, Renée and Huguette, who have decided to adopt me for the week. Apparently, I remind them of their friends’ son who followed his boyfriend to join the circus (not one of those with animals, don’t worry, I checked). They said: you see Jaahn, zat’s real love!

Suppose I agree with a part of this, y’know. The notion of following your loved one somewhere does sound romantic. Joining the circus, though? I don’t see it. (Please don’t decide to join the circus, Macca, I don’t do well with heights and circus music kinda freaks me out. Though as Mimi often reminds me, I already put on me clown makeup every day, so maybe it wouldn’t be that much of a stretch.)

Right now I’m sitting by the window in my room, enjoying the view of the garden and I’m thinking about how I’m going to have to get up on a stage tomorrow and perform what is both the cheesiest yet the most personal poem I’ve ever written. Performing love poetry is tricky, because you can’t wrap it up in bravado or humor. It’s just you and your anxiety in that spotlight, together, forever, wrapped around each other… ye get the point. Not even Paris!John can save me from that kind of vulnerability, I’m afraid.

I guess if YOU were in the audience, it wouldn’t be quite so difficult. I’d even get into the tiny clown car with the rest of the circus to pick you up at the airport if you decided to drop your farm boy life and come see me in Paris.

I personally think you’d love it here. We could find you some vegan cheese and take a walk along the Seine? It would be romantic as hell – you nibbling on yer cheese like a giant mouse, me in a black beret taking candids of you on me phone…

Speaking of airports,

I should thank you (NOT) for nearly getting me thrown out of my flight to Paris! The cheek! Here’s why: I was actually sitting on a plane when I finally found the peace and quiet to read your last email, open the notebook, and study the new songs you wrote.

When I got to “Wait”, I:

  * Yelled “Of course I’ll fookin wait!” really loud straight into my neighbour’s ear (she was not happy)
  * Got so excited I started bashing the notebook against the nearest surface (which happened to be the bald head of a really posh gentleman sitting across the isle from me)
  * Really really really wanted to get off the plane and run all the way to Scotland to hug the bleedin hell out of ya for taking this giant step forward

I mean, not that I thought you’d be able to resist me in the long run, but it’s good to know I won’t have to spend the rest of me life jealous of some sheep and a hinny.

So, again, as I so eloquently yelled into that woman’s ear: I’ll wait. (Of course I bloody will. Still, it’s just like you to finally fall for my charms when I’m on a whole different continent. Who told you to torture me like that? Was it Harrison? Tell him I know where he lives!)

Speaking of treacherous friends, Ivan is a certified little shite for telling you my boyhood secrets. That said, I am fond of the memories of the first Johnny and the Moondogs gig, even if it was atrocious. AND I’ll have you know that it’s a common thing in growing boys to have coordination issues. It’s not my fault that there was a lad in the audience that looked like a twink version of Elvis. Anyone would fall over at that sight, Macca.

A n y o n e.

Yes, even you. In fact, you would fuckin’ eat that shit up.

Mind you, I wasn’t wearing me glasses, so he may have been mingin in reality, y’see. We will never know, though, because he was gone before we finished our set. I never got a chance to catch up with him. I’d likely just be wastin me time though – Ivan told me the lad was absolutely appalled by me guitar skills. Guess he’s never heard of John Lennon, the musical McGyver. Turning a 6-string guitar into a 4-string guitar? Legendary.

His loss, though, innit.

Yer,

John

P.S. Reading this back, I see this email has chaotic energy, I think the time difference is getting to me.

.

**From:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** You realise we’re talking 1-hour time difference, yeah?

(I wouldn’t want to see you actually jet lagged. Or maybe I would.)

Dear John,

I’m glad that you have safely reached Paris and that you seem to be enjoying your time there. That said, though I find your description of Paris!John quite amusing and interesting, I think that I’ll stick with Liverpool!John for the time being. I’ve grown quite attached to that daft boy, thank you very much.

As for your performance, I’m sure you’ll do well. Just take off your glasses and you’ll be fine. Or, alternatively, imagine me sitting in the audience munching on that giant (vegan) cheese. (If it helps you, I’ll even allow you to imagine me with mouse ears on. But don’t spread that image, we don’t want to ruin my tough guy rep.)

I’m actually quite sad I won’t get to witness it on my own, especially since you never shared those lyrics with me (I leafed through the notebook several times to look for this specific poem, but I reckon it’s too personal for you to share it with me?). Seriously, let me know if there’s a livestream, because I will watch the shite out of that.

Speaking of the notebook, I’d apologise for the way you reacted on the airplane if your description of it wasn’t so hilarious. That said, I could go for that hug right about now.

Here’s something embarrassing that happened to me, so that we can say we’re even: Yesterday I took the train down to the city because I found meself craving a Starbucks. And because there’s no way that I could be pregnant, I guess the reason why I had the craving is… I miss you.

It’s funny, because missing someone you barely saw a couple times (and that’s counting that one time you stalked me while I was walking Martha in my strawberry jacket) and you talk to all the time via email doesn’t seem like it should be a thing. But it is. A thing. It’s a huge thing. And it’s been weighing on me, John. (And visiting that random Starbucks didn’t help, because the baristas were all wrong and they refused to make me *my* drink and – most importantly – *you* weren’t there. I’m considering writing them a strongly-worded email.)

The thing that really did it in your latest email was something you mentioned by the end. And when I say *did it*, I mean it made me spit out my coffee to the other side of the shop (one of the baristas shot me a really nasty glare; I feel like “Derek the arsewipe” – which is what his name tag should have said – really gives a bad name to all Starbucks baristas in the UK – again, I’ll be putting that into my strongly-worded email).

Anyroad, let’s get to that thing, because it is juicy, Johnny-boy: that “twink version of Elvis” who showed up at your first ever gig way back then?

Ya guessed it, that was me.

Are you shaken up?

If you are at least half as gobsmacked as I was when I realised it, you’re probably freaking out right now. Please make sure you have something sugary on standby and put yer feet up to avoid going into shock! Have Renée and Huguette feed you baguettes (that should be a song)!

Though I should probably be offended by the way you described me, I feel like I can’t actually fault that description? And also? I’m kind of /into/ being called a twink version of Elvis? It feels like one of those things you never knew you needed in your life until you got it. I’m considering sneaking down into Liverpool right now and monogramming all my towels with “TE”.

The funny thing is that I completely forgot about that day until I read your last email. You know how a memory sometimes pops into your head during the oddest moments? Like when you smell something familiar or see or read something that reminds you of some old time? Well this memory didn’t just “pop”, it felt more like it crashed into my brain like a freight train without breaks.

I mean – that ACTUALLY HAPPENED, John. I am Twink Elvis (again, can we put this on my tombstone?). All those conversations we had about missing out on each other when we were young? Turns out that was bollocks, innit. We… could have been friends for all these bloody years! This whole time!

Once this realization came to me, I couldn’t calm myself for the longest time. I shit yeh not, Lennon, I was still shaking when I got back to the cottage. Martha even came over and put her head into my lap, whining a little, as if she were one of those emotional support pooches (which she obviously isn’t – if anything, she’s got more anxiety than you and I combined – It’s like as if she was an unfortunate child of ours that got all our anxiety genes).

I just. I can’t believe it. But it did happen. It really fookin did, y’know.

My memory is still a little hazy, to be completely honest (it was a difficult time in my life so my memories get jumbled and sometimes they are simply too painful to revisit and analyse, which might be one of the reasons why that particular memory got buried with all the rest of that shite), but I do remember some random details of that day…

…like the smell of the air (beer and candy floss), the weather (hot but breezy), the colour of Ivan’s jumper (white and navy blue stripes), and your hands on the strings (strong, nice fingers).

I also remember that Ivan noticed I was fixating on those hands and he quirked an eyebrow at me. I remember I felt hot all over, like I’d been caught doing something forbidden. And then I made that comment about the lad missing two strings on his guitar, and…

…and I guess Ivan reckoned he better not introduce us based on my reaction?

So, I mean, yeah… yes, you’re right, Johnny, y’know. It is my loss.

Or /was/, anyway.

Xo,

Paul

P.S. Fuck! "Waiting" just feels pointless at this point, doesn’t it.

.

**From:** ivaughan@ucl.ac.uk  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Don’t say I never did anything for you

My dearest Johnatan,

I hope that this is the last email I’m EVER writing you or McCartney regarding this matter, because believe me when I say that “it’s been 84 years” and I have had enough. Apparently, I am not the only one experiencing these feelings either, which is great to know, because I so dislike wallowing alone in misery. I actually think I even made some new friends off of this whole shebang, which is only good, because otherwise I’d be thinking about charging you actual ££.

I received a really interesting email from Paul the other day. That email made me want to stick my head out of the window and screech like a bird into the night. I didn’t, though, for the following reasons: a) birds don’t really screech into the night unless they’re owls in pain b) your situation doesn’t warrant this reaction and so I pushed the urge down c) it was raining and I just blow-dried my hair d) I’m actually afraid of birds

Anyroad.

Since patience was never my strong suit and – just like my Roman and Greek idols – I am a man of action (and also a man who enjoys drinking wine while laying down), I have decided to use my super-powers of being the only person with social skills within our group of friends for good one more time. To do what, you ask?

You shall see very, very soon.

But seriously, don’t say I never did anything for you. And check your inbox for more messages. Like I said, I’m not the only one who’s had enough.

Si vales, valeo,

Ivan

P.S. Let us know how it went!

.

**From:** c.powell@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** RE: “In My Life”

John,

I don’t quite know what to say about the poem aside from the fact that I feel honoured that you shared it with me before your performance. I know you mainly did it because you’re terrified that it’s bad… but I also choose to believe you did it because you trust me as one of your best friends.

Let me start by saying that I teared up reading it, and although I have long gotten over any kind of romantic feelings for you (I mean, ew), reading it made me wish you had written that poem about me. For me.

In a platonic kind of way, of course (again, ew).

Anyroad. There’s no need to be afraid, yeah? I’m sure you’ll blow them out of the water at yer performance, just try to imagine that the person you actually had in mind while writing this poem is in the audience.

Whaddayaknow, John. Maybe, if you imagine it hard enough, it will actually come true.

Love,

Cyn

P.S. You never told me Paul had such attractive friends? Do you think you could get me the redhead’s number (and possibly her Starbucks order)? You owe me, just sayin.

.

**From:** hazzatheguitarmaster@yahoo.com  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** No subject

John,

We don’t know each other very well and I’m not the type to send anyone personal emails (why you and Paul never texted like normal blokes will probably remain one of the unsolved mysteries of mankind), but I reckon in this case I’ll make an exception.

As I type this message to yeh, Martha is sitting right here with her shaggy head resting in me lap, staring up at me with those sad eyes as if it were me fault her human’s not here. (I’m slightly offended by her moping since I let her go up on the sofa and watch Derry Girls while hand-feeding her popcorn.)

Anyhow.

I talked to Paul on the phone couple days ago and it’s becoming clear that this whole *thing* the two of you have going on got to a point where not even I can ignore it (and believe me, I have tried. The other day I meditated so hard I missed 5 calls from me mum). Therefore, me and couple other people decided to finally do something about it, since the two of you are literally useless.

You’re welcome.

Don’t waste this chance (mostly because we’re all out of money now).

But also: I’ll be watching you, John Lennon. I’ve known Paul since we were wee lads and he’s like family to me. God knows he’s dumb as rocks sometimes (especially when it comes to matters of the heart – as you’ve witnessed first-hand), but I love the daft bag of rocks like a brother. If you hurt him, I will find you and I will strangle you with the E string from my acoustic guitar (for poetic cinema).

Namaste,

George H.

P.S. Your friend Ringo says hi and to use protection.

.

**From: **johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**To:** ivaughan@ucl.ac.uk; ringoringorings@gmail.com; hazzatheguitarmaster@yahoo.com; c.powell@liverpool.ac.uk; ladyasher@gmail.com  
**Cc:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**Subject: **Best found family ever

Hi everyone,

I can’t believe what you did. You really went and pooled your money and bought a bloody plane ticket for Paul, didn’t yeh! To Paris! To see me! I don’t even know what to say (except I obviously do, otherwise I wouldn’t be typing it into an email).

I am typing this as he snoozes next to me (gloriously naked and really fuckin hairy!) and I can honestly tell you that this is the giddiest I’ve felt since… ever! And that includes the one memorable time Mimi accidentally inhaled helium and then tried to scold me for coming late to my own birthday party.

And it’s not just because of the sex (which happened several times and did actually blow me mind, thank you very much) that I’m this giddy, but because you all did this to make me happy. To make Paul happy. Hell, I thought most of you (looking at you, George Harrison) hated me guts! But no, oh no, you lot actually love me, don’t you. And I am the luckiest lad in all of the UK (or, currently, continental Europe).

Now, I know you’re all probably itching for some details… and my friends… I will give you them deets, because this way it will live in my outbox forever along with all of the messages me and Macca have exchanged over the past couple of months:

Honestly, it didn’t go as smooth as you people probably thought it would, mainly because neither me nor Paul are very stable people (neither emotionally nor physically, I’m ashamed to report). Still, Paul has always seemed to me like he had hit shit together, but yesterday I learned that he’s only ever fully functional via email.

Your plan was good, people.

It COULD have gone like this:

I’m in a middle of reciting my poem at the festival, just about getting to the part where I say “But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you” when someone new enters the venue. I can’t see who it is, because the lights are pointed towards me, but they are visibly trembling. As they step into the light, I finally recognise that it’s Paul and gasp out loud like a Jane Austen character (one of the male characters, because let’s be honest, the men are much bigger drama queens than the women in those novels). We run towards each other and when we finally meet, our lips join in the sweetest and softest kiss. It’s perfect.

It SHOULD have gone like this:

I go to the hotel lobby in the morning to see if there’s any breakfast and who I don’t see waiting for me by the entrance? It’s Paul, looking at me with those big hazel eyes, a faint blush covering his cheeks. He says, “my friends bought me a flight to Paris, so I reckon here I am”. “Here you are indeed,” I respond all distinguished-like, my lips stretching into a wicked grin. I jump on him, covering his face with kisses, the handle of his carry-on digging into my side the tiniest bit. It’s not perfect but it’s so, so good.

It ACTUALLY happened like this:

I’d just stumbled out of the stall at the loos, my steps still shaky as I was coming down from the high of my performance, having just bared my soul to a whole room of random Frenchmen. My temples were pounding, my throat was dry. My vision was blurry, because I’d just taken off me specs to splash water on me face.

I was just about to turn around and leave when my head got bashed with something hard and I doubled over in pain, cursing like a sailor, clutching me nose.

The person who opened that stall’s door right into me face started apologising profusely and it took a couple seconds for the dots in my brain to connect and for me to realise that:

  * the bloke was muttering in English
  * that the English had a Scouse lilt
  * the bloke was James Paul McCartney

We stared at one another for a brief moment and I swear I could see the dots in his head connecting as well, and then he was stumbling over into me arms, me name on his lips as he yelled in surprise, his eyes big and wide, his cheeks red, both of our hands still unwashed from the toilet…

…and just as we were literal seconds from breaking the tension and finally kissing, Paul rambling something about how much he loved the poem I performed but then got lost at the venue looking for me only to find the loos and me just wanting to shut him up and taste him… we heard somebody clear his throat… and saw this old French guy staring at us from the other side of the loos with his eyebrows raised in mild annoyance, clutching a bar of soap like a hand-grenade.

“Have you not ever seen two disaster bisexuals in their natural habitat, monsieur?” I said for literally no reason whatsoever, after which:

The old man exited the bathroom, shouting something in French (the only words I could make out were “les homosexuels” and “scandale”).

Somebody flushed the toilet in the stall right next to us.

Paul dissolved into giggles so hard I had to physically hold him up.

So, you see, it was a bit of a disaster.

Still, I honestly wouldn’t change anything. After Paul finally stopped laughing (and the other person left, and we finally washed our hands), we exchanged the most awkward kiss known to mankind. And even though it was awkward, I still felt like someone removed all the bones from my body. I’d been wanting this for so long I think my brain actually went into shock when it finally happened. It was like I left my own earthly vessel, levitated above us and watched us kiss, thinking about how kissing is actually really weird and how there was a tiny balding spot in my hair and how strangely on brand it was for us to kiss in the loo.

(We’ve gotten so much better at kissing since, by the way – outside the loo, too.)

What next, you ask? A lot, my friends, but here’s the SprakNotes version:

    * I paraded Paul all around the venue, introducing him to everyone as “mon petit-ami”, taking way too much pleasure in the way he blushed every single time
    * we drank a lot of wine
    * I ended up pulling him back into the loos to read my poem to him again, which led to:
    * him snogging the life out of me against the door
    * someone attempting to open the door 5 minutes in
    * the someone turned out to be one of the British literature professors who came to the poetry festival
    * who offered me a PhD student spot at the University of Glasgow, which I didn’t actually accept but promised I’d think about (carefully gazing at Paul to see his reaction)
    * we slinked out and basically ran into my hotel…

…and the rest is for us to know and for you to find out (probably Cyn after she gets a bit of liquor into me, let’s not fool ourselves).

In other words, this is where the story – our story – and hopefully your involvement – ends (for now). Once again, thank you so much for this, friends. Me and Paul are good at expressing ourselves through our melodies and words, but when it comes to action, sometimes we need a gentle nudge (mostly Paul, though, preferably with a bag of bricks). This is honestly the happiest I ever remember being. And I know that there’s still so much to come, which is the most thrilling part.

I can’t wait to treat everyone to coffee when we come back. Meet us at the shop, it’s on me (I know, I know, Cyn, I will remember to actually put it on my tab this time, you can put away that corporate frown).

Forever yer Most Humble and Obedient Servant,

John W. Lennon

P.S. I will also write to Brian and auntie Mimi to thank them separately as I don’t think they’d appreciate the explicit nature of this particular message.

P.P.S. I hope you didn’t let the two of them meet. Can you imagine the power?

.

**From:** therealpaulmccartney@gmail.com  
**To:** johnwlennon@liverpool.ac.uk  
**Subject:** Frankly, I’ll miss Paris

Dear John,

You only just left the room to take a shower and I find myself already missing you. I can’t believe I’ve turned into this… I don’t even know what it is (a hopeless romantic? a fool? Mr. Moonlight?) in such a short time-span… then again, I reckon I’ve always had it in me, you just bring it out in a more aggressive fashion than I’m used to (or maybe it’s the oxytocin). I refuse to feel ashamed. Having feelings is human, innit. It’s good for the soul. A real thing. Not silly.

To be completely honest, I surprised myself with how ok I’ve been with everything that’s happened since we finally kissed yesterday (in spite of the circumstances). I thought I’d have a continuation of that nasty sexuality crisis I went through while I was in Scotland, but my brain apparently decided that dealing with that crisis surrounded by wool and mud was enough and that that’s that on that.

I actually feel fine about this whole thing now? I mean… I’m already a gemini, so bisexuality really isn’t that much of a stretch.

It’s funny how once you say to yourself that it’s ok, it really does become sort of ok, y’know. Psychology, eh?

By the way, fuck you for telling our mates everything via email. Ringo (of all people) just sent me a gif of himself smashing his fist into his palm. Apparently, he learned how to make gifs for the sole purpose of making and sending this to me. You need new friends.

Anyhow, none of this is really the reason I’m writing you this email, though (If I really wanted to deal with missing you, I’d just slip into the bathroom and join you – now, here’s an idea – but no, McCartney, you’ve got to stay on track).

I was sitting on our bed, staring out of the window, my fingers itching for a cigarette (and fuck you, John, I quit smoking a long time ago, but what we did this morning made me want to light one so bad) when I realised that we should go out on a date. We’ve never been on one before – not a real one anyway – and this is the perfect setting. Hell, we’re in PARIS, John. PARIS. The city of love. The city of lovERS. I mean, listen, I haven’t seen much of it yet, but this city is already my favourite city in the world. I already know I’ll miss it when we go back to Liverpool, so let’s enjoy as much of it as we can before our flight tomorrow.

But first, I need fuel. Which is why I’m going to put some clothes on and leave the room right after I finish this email. Please don’t panic (or make the surprise Pikachu face) when you don’t find me (and if you read this after you’ve already panicked – sorry, luv!) and just follow instructions. I did some research and this is where I’ll be waiting for you to start our first official date with the best possible beverage: 91 Boulevard Saint-Germain, 75006 Paris, France

Don’t let me wait for too long, John. That said – it might actually do me good to spend some time there on me own to observe. I mean, if we’re moving to Scotland and all, I’m going to have to find a job to support you while you do your research before my career takes off, eh? Can’t think of a more apt option for me.

For the two of us.

Oh and Johnny, before you leave the room, you might want to check the notebook first. I’m going to leave it on the bed and mark the spot.

I came up with this song while you were still asleep this morning, basically waking up with the melody already knocking around in me brain and the words “I will, I will, I will, I will” stuck to it on a loop. It’s a gentle melody and they’re gentle words – how very apt for that gentle morning, even if I woke up with my arse still burning, your knee lodged in my kidney, and my left arm cut off from circulation – and it perfectly sums up how I feel. Have felt for a while, actually.

So… yeah.

Thank you for being so patient with me, John. Thank you for opening up my world to so much more than I thought possible. Thank you for giving me the words to my melodies, in more than one sense. Thank you for understanding me, for making me laugh, and for helping me accept my inner Twink Elvis (let's make it into a badge already).

And bloody hell, after all those months of emailing, I can’t wait to see yer face again, even though I’ve just seen it really, really up close (literally, I know how many eyelashes you have). So hurry the fuck up, Lennon.

Love (love, love),

Paul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it! I am so sorry for the long pauses between the last three chapters (and especially before the very last one). I honestly did not expect that the lockdown would do this to me. Thank you for sticking with the story! If you’re interested, I put together a playlist for the fic containing most (if not all) of the songs that popped up. It's on Spotify and you should find it if you search for the fic title (you'll know it's the right one when you read the description).
> 
> You can also catch me on my tumblr if you have any further questions (but please don't yell at me if I did something wrong). [Here's](https://slippingintostockings.tumblr.com/post/624250773379874816/you-might-well-arsk-ch-1010fandom-the-beatles) the chapter post if you want to reblog and spread the word.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience *blows kisses*.
> 
> P.S. [This is](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ovid#/media/File:Publius_Ovidius_Naso_in_the_Nuremberg_chronicle_XCIIIv.jpg) Ivan's profile pic.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from John Lennon's book _In His Own Write_.


End file.
